


Intrusive

by d1squietude



Category: Dramione - Fandom, Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Death Eater - Freeform, F/M, Legilimency (Harry Potter), Mind Reading, Mind Sex, Stronger together trope, draco goes insane, oneshot turned into multi chapter, opposite of a slow burn, starts as smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29657592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d1squietude/pseuds/d1squietude
Summary: Hermione Granger wasn't even sure how she ended up on her hands and knees, scrubbing floors across from Draco Malfoy in the kitchens that night. Of course, every moment in time has a series of events which lead up to it: cause and effect- not a difficult concept to grasp. Adding too much toad's eye to a burn healing potion would- of course- result in an explosion. An explosion would lead to being reprimanded by Snape and perhaps a loss of house points. But the detention was an unforeseen consequence of her forced partnership with Malfoy.Only chaos could ensue. But maybe chaos is exactly what the world needed.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy / Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. I

September 13, 1996

Hermione Granger wasn't even sure how she ended up on her hands and knees, scrubbing floors across from Draco Malfoy in the kitchens that night. Of course, every moment in time has a series of events which lead up to it: cause and effect— not a difficult concept to grasp. Adding too much toad's eye to a burn healing potion would— of course— result in an explosion. An explosion would lead to being reprimanded by Snape and perhaps a loss of house points. But the detention was an unforeseen consequence of her forced partnership with Malfoy in potions earlier in the day.

She just knew he had sabotaged that potion to make her look bad. Malfoy had historically earned the highest marks in potions, and Hermione could not formulate in her mind a reason he would make such a simple mistake.

Burn Paste was intended to heal any common burn, and took approximately one hour to cure before it could be separated into vials. Hermione had carefully read the instructions prior to class, while Malfoy had not.

Six Mandrake leaves, quartered, simmered with six drops of essence of dittany for five minutes, stirred constantly

One whole bat spleen, crushed, added 1 gram at a time, separated by ten second intervals, not stirred

One gram hair of cat, scorched, immediately added ten seconds after bat spleen, stirred for five minutes

Four eye of toad, smashed into a paste, added carefully one at a time, allowing for one minute intervals between eyes.

Six additional drops of essence of dittany added at once, stirred for five additional minutes.

Two grams of eye of newt added simultaneously with ten drops essence of comfrey

Potion to be stirred every three minutes for three quarters of an hour

After a predictable five minute argument—wherein Draco had arrogantly sat back in his chair and suggested she make the potion herself if she thought she was "so smart"— the two had decided upon splitting up ingredients to prepare  
After a predictable five minute argument—wherein Draco had arrogantly sat back in his chair and suggested she make the potion herself if she thought she was "so smart"— the two had decided upon splitting up ingredients to prepare. Hermione had just added bat spleen to her cauldron and begun to stir the potion when Malfoy prematurely scraped at least six eye of toad into the potion.

She didn't even have time to speak before the cauldron in front of her exploded in her face. But she had ample time to shout at him immediately afterwards. The two had engaged in a shouting match, before Snape assigned them both a two hour detention in the kitchens and removed twenty house points each.

Now Hermione angrily scrubbed at the kitchen floor in silence, wondering how Draco Malfoy could have been so daft. The only noise made between the two of them was Malfoy's constant scoffs.

After thirty minutes of listening to his wordless complaints, Hermione looked at Malfoy– really looked at him. He was dressed in trousers and a button up, a horrible choice of clothing for their task. He was practically pawing at the dark tiled floor beneath him, sloshing soapy water around as if he had never held a sponge before. As if he had never cleaned a floor before.

That's what house elves are for, Hermione thought with disgust. She wondered if he had ever done manual labor before in his life, aside from a few detentions. Even those came sparse for him, as his fathers status in the Ministry made professors hesitate to assign him any punishment. He practically pranced around the school like he believed himself to be invincible.

She studied him more, eyes traveling to the scowl on his face. She tried to imagine the thoughts running through his mind. "—forced to clean floors like a peasant, in the company of a Mudblood! From my own head of house, of all people! My father will surely hear about this." She snickered at the thought.

Malfoy's eyes snapped to her. She glanced back at the floor, attempting to hide the fact she'd been staring.

"And what exactly, Granger, do you find so amusing?" he snarled, spitting her name as if it had no business passing through his lips.

"I can practically feel your outrage from across the room." Hermione snickered. "The great Draco Malfoy, scrubbing floors like a muggle."

He smirked, arrogance painted across his face. "I'm sure you know all about that, don't you?"

"What?" She couldn't help bursting into laughter. "Manual labor? Yes, in fact, I do. Because unlike you, I was not waited on hand and foot and treated like a God amongst men, Malfoy."

"That's not hard to believe." He muttered under his breath, scowling.

Hermione eyed him again as he went back to his work, ignoring her. His trousers were soaked. But he still held himself with a sort of determination, underneath all the discontentment. He's trying, she thought to herself.

Draco Malfoy was not as above the work as he thought, and perhaps he already knew that. Under the god complex he showed to the world, Hermione wondered if he felt the need to prove it. Prove his superiority. Prove he was worth the status. Prove the worth of the Malfoy name. She thought back to all the times he'd known the content in their classes. He raised his hand nearly as much as she did. Malfoy was intelligent, she couldn't deny it. Aside from herself, he received the highest marks in their class, which she knew only because he reminded his peers relentlessly, often falsely claiming his marks were higher than hers.

She wondered how lonely it was, treating everyone else as if they did not deserve his presence. Pushing himself to uphold an image of prestige. His only friends were a small group of Slytherins, including Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson— all from the list of truly Pureblooded Families in Britain. Beside those three, she only saw him with Crabbe and Goyle. But they seemed to be goons rather than friends.

Everyone else feared him. Everyone else was beneath him.

"You know, if you were raised in a different family, perhaps we could have been friends." She muttered and eyed him with pity.

"I'd never be friends with a mudblood." Malfoy looked up at her with disgust, dropping his sponge. He met her eyes with a cold, hard stare. She noted that he looked neither threatening nor scared. All she saw in his eyes was hatred. Misguided hatred.

Hermione held his glare with equal intensity. If he thought he could scare her, as she suspected he did, she would show him he was wrong. Her eyes began to burn, but she refused to blink.

He was the first to look away. "And don't you ever talk about my family. You are not worthy to comment on the Malfoy name." With that, as if he expected the conversation to be over, he picked up his sponge and returned to pawing pathetically at the tiles. Again. Still trying.

Hermione laughed. "Get over yourself, Malfoy. You can't possibly believe that pureblooded propaganda you're too smart." She shook her head. "I think this is just for show."

"Propaganda?" Malfoy muttered, disinterested. Was that the only thing you heard?

"Yes, propaganda." Hermione stated, matter-of-factly.

"I'll show you propaganda. The Malfoys were royalty until the bloody Potters came around– became bloody martyrs. A blood traitor and a Mudblood. My ancestors are rolling in their graves. Now baby Potter has the whole school believing Purebloods are evil, the righteous git."

"You did that yourself, Malfoy." Hermione cut his tangent short. "People dislike you because of how you act, not your name."

"And how do I act, Granger?"

"Like an arrogant prick– consumed with archaic ideologies. You treat people like scum."

"Oh yeah? Maybe it's because I have a right to my magic, unlike you lot." He was still facing the floor.

Hermione tensed, rage boiling inside her. "I don't have a right to my magic?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

Out of all the things he'd ever said, that was the worst. She reconsidered her previous thought process. Perhaps he did believe his own words. He can't even look at me when he speaks.

"It must wound your ego, then, that I am nothing but a muggleborn. With 'no right to my magic.' A bookish, little know-it-all, and yet I am a better witch now than you could ever be a wizard. Because despite my lineage, I exceed you in every subject." She seethed. "Does your father ever hear about that, Draco?"

Malfoy's head snapped up. "Don't talk about my fa–"

Hermione wasn't finished.

"You walk around like you are Merlin's gift to the wizarding world. The mighty Malfoy heir. Beware mudbloods and blood traitors, you have met your superior!" She was seething now.

"You act like you're so much better than everyone else. More worthy." She spat. "Maybe at surface level, that's what you think; that's what you've been taught. But deep down, you are not that dense. You can't be. And if you are, I pity you."

The words tasted bitter on her tongue. She spoke with a tone she had never used towards anyone else. She was defying every etiquette lesson her parents had taught her, yet she loved it. His eyes were wide, his mouth agape– he was shocked. Shocked that she– or anyone– would dare speak to him as she had. But Hermione loved that. Shock was a much better look on him than hatred. She loved the power.

Malfoy leapt from the ground, squeezing the sponge so hard, water rained onto his fancy leather shoes. "YOU pity ME, Granger?" His voice was loud now– he too was angry.

"Yes, I pity you." Hermione rose as well. She couldn't ascertain whether Malfoy was angry enough to hurt her, but she didn't want to stay seated while he stood. She wondered if his father had even taught him not to hit a woman. But she tried her luck nonetheless. "Must be difficult being the Malfoy heir. The Sacred Twenty-Eight. I heard you purebloods are so afraid of muggles you'll breed amongst yourselves rather than dirty your bloodline."

"Doing some research on my family?" Malfoy sneered, again ignoring everything else she had said.

"Don't flatter yourself, it's practically impossible to NOT find your name somewhere in history books. I gag every time. I usually skip ahead but I found the part about your aunt particularly interesting." Hermione glared. "Ever visited her in Azkaban?"

Malfoy clenched his fists. "You watch your fucking mouth, Granger."

That was his breaking point. The power she felt intensified. He had cursed– something he never did. He'd throw slurs like a quaffle but never a word as taboo as fuck. She was sure he too had now broken every etiquette rule he'd learned.

She was capable of making him angry. That felt good.

"Or what, Malfoy?" Hermione cocked her head. "I dare you– do something—"

She felt the urge to reach out and slap him like she had in third year. She remembered how great that felt. "You don't have your wand. You're useless without it. Can't even scrub a floor on your own." She motioned to his side of the floor, soaked with soapy water.

"Useless?" He laughed. Laughed. "Might I remind you that you don't have Potter or Weaslebee here to protect you, Granger. You're just as 'useless' as you believe me to be."

Malfoy now began to close the space between them. Hermione watched as he stepped over tile after tile, careful like a wolf hunting prey. She couldn't help but shiver in his cold stare. It was icier than usual.

"I'm not useless," She spat, never breaking eye contact. Malfoy was only a few tiles away from her now. He sneered, glancing up and down her body— sizing her up.

Panic flooded Hermione's senses. She eyed the door. It was at least ten meters away, and she wasn't that quick of a runner. What have I done? Malfoy looked angrier than he ever had. Perhaps she had truly hit a nerve. Always running your mouth, 'Mione. What have you done?

"You think you're so smart, Granger? With your books and your spells?" Malfoy smirked, realizing he held the power now.

Malfoy took one step forward; Hermione took two steps back.

"I'll tell you what you are, mudblood." He chuckled, watching her flinch at the word. "You're a know-it-all. You say I act superior? Have you ever taken a look at yourself? Listened to yourself speak?" His voice was scarily low.

"You do the exact same. But the difference here is that you're not. You just read your little books and bat your pretty little eyes and pretend you're this innocent. Bookish. Little. Witch."

Malfoy took one step forward; Hermione took two steps back.

"But you want the power, the glory–"

I did enjoy the power. Briefly. She thought, but shouted "I do not!"

"Shut up, Granger. Don't pretend." He glared. "You want people to tell you how good you are, because deep down, you don't believe it."

He took one step forward; Hermione took two steps back, until her rear collided with a stone wall. Bloody hell.

"You crave validation– approval." He continued. "Because you know you don't deserve it: the magic, the grades, the friends." Malfoy eyed her. He was within reaching distance. "That's why you hate hearing me call you a mudblood. You already hear it from yourself."

"Every."

Hermione tensed.

"Fucking."

Rage boiled inside her. Rage like no other.

"Day."

At that moment, she snapped. She put all her strength into her fist as it collided with his cheekbone. The force knocked his head sideways.

That was enough for Malfoy. He snapped his head back towards her, eyes full of rage, with a hint of... hunger. He bridged the gap between them and brought one hand to her throat and the other to pin her wrist against the wall. She didn't have time to defend herself.

He squeezed, not enough to asphyxiate her, but enough to scare her. To tell her he had the power to do so.

"You seem to like hitting me, Granger. You like having that power, yeah? You think I've learned not to hit women? Uphold your muggle morals?"

Their eyes met– his darkened. She struggled to pull her wrist from his grasp, to no avail.

"Yeah, you do, don't you? You like feeling superior. You'll criticize me, when we are one in the same." He cocked his head. "Except of course, for the fact that you've got filthy blood."

But Hermione noticed he lacked conviction this time. He didn't seem as disgusted by her 'filthy blood.' Not up close.

Hermione found the courage to speak. She looked down at his hand around her throat. "You're touching me, Malfoy. You must have lost your fear of me."

"I have never feared you, Granger." He licked his lips with a sneer.

She thought back to how his behavior had changed since third year. She had once concluded that he did, in fact, fear her, ever since the slap in third year. As if her touch was poisonous. Even in potions class, he never came close enough to touch her. He had stood at the opposite end of the table, even. He wouldn't even look at her as they worked– only when they had argued. Only when he was angry– or when he thought she couldn't see.

He actually did that a lot.

"Then what is it? When you look at me in the halls?" Hermione felt his grip shift on her throat. Tighter, but only slightly. His hand was hot against her skin. "You're always looking." It was a hyperbolic statement, though she realized it held some semblance of truth.

"You look, but you never want me to see. You run like a scared little puppy if I get close. Only insult me when your friends can see."

"I've never feared you, Granger." He repeated, his voice a low growl. He craned his head downwards, towering at least 20 centimeters above her.

Hermione analyzed the situation, as she had been taught to do in her muggle self defense classes. Malfoy's grip around her neck was too distracting. His hand was twice the size of her face. And his skin was burning hers. She wondered if he had a fever.

She then shifted her gaze from his hands to his eyes. His gaze travelled across her face— her body— and she saw....

No. It can't be...

She saw– or thought she saw– a hint of something else. There was something hidden under the hatred in his silver eyes.

Memories of Harry crossed her mind. Harry and Ginny. When they argued. Harry looked at her like that. Only Ginny could make him that angry.

Hermione had never excelled in people skills. School, yes. But on the playground, she had always chosen to read instead of play. When she was young, her teachers had thought her to be neurodivergent, the way she never interacted with others. But the truth was, she tried– she always tried– but she simply wasn't well versed in the art of understanding people. Emotions.

So she had solved the problem the only way she knew how. It actually took a while before she actually found a muggle book about facial expressions to understand how others felt, so she could better interact with the kids her age. She accredited it entirely for the way she had made friends with Harry and Ron.

Hermione flipped through the pages in her mind. Anger, furrowed brows, scowl. Joy, corners of mouth lifted, "happy" eyes.

The book had been for adults, not children, so it mentioned... other things.

She began to think there was another reason he had avoided her eyes this past year. The idea was incredulous, but all signs pointed towards it. A telltale sign is licking of the lips, darkened, often roaming eyes, and warm, flushed skin. The person will maintain close proximity, and initiate physical contact.

It added up. Did Draco Malfoy–

"You..." Hermione croaked.

Malfoy used his hold to push her head against the wall, glaring all the while. It hurt. "I what, Granger?" He practically purred, voice deep. Husky, almost. His chest rose and fell as she eyed him, searching for signs that she was wrong.

Hermione's thoughts got the better of her. She couldn't help herself– she burst into laughter, with what little air Malfoy's hand would allow. "All this time..." She could barely get the words out.

"Spit it out Granger. Speak wisely. I'm growing impatient."

"You don't want to hurt me, Malfoy." Hermione inspected him, still questioning herself. His lips were curled into an expression halfway between a sneer and a smirk. His pale cheeks were slightly flushed. She wondered what she'd see if his hand weren't in the way of looking... lower.

"You want to fuck me."

He scowled, but to her surprise, Malfoy had no rebuttal.

Draco Malfoy, for once, was silent.

Now Hermione once again held the power. All the power. And she wasn't quite sure how to use it. She'd never considered the idea that Malfoy's cruelty could be the result of a childhood crush. She'd read that men often showed affection through insults in adolescence, and she'd considered that to be the case with Ron, but Malfoy's name had never crossed her mind.

Complete arse.

Hermione decided that she would abuse the power– karma for all the years of bullying she had endured. "'Filthy little mudblood,' 'insufferable know-it-all,'" she snickered. "Were all just guises." She stared at him, amused.

"Don't flatter yourself, Granger." He averted his eyes, looking at her hand against the wall. But he licked his lips again.

"So I'm wrong?" Hermione cooed, batting her eyes.

"Absolutely. I would never–" He drawled. Cheeks still flushed.

"What? Feel for a mudblood?"

He nodded slightly.

Hermione realized she still had one free hand– and she knew now he wouldn't actually asphyxiate her. She brushed her fingertips against the hand on her throat. She tried not to laugh or think about Draco Malfoy at all as she trailed her hand up his arm.

He shuddered.

She had no intention of continuing, but watching him shiver lit a fire inside her. His cold, hard exterior had fallen. Draco Malfoy was vulnerable.

She decided she would make him beg– quiver– and leave. She traced her fingers along his bicep. He was muscular for someone so pampered. He was a seeker with the arms of a beater. She tried to push the image of Draco Malfoy exercising out of her mind. She tried not to think of him at all.

She had once– thought of him. In fourth year. When he stopped gelling his hair back– when he grew. When his jaw became chiseled and his shoulders broadened.

"Granger, what are you doing? I am trying to–"

"Choke me?" She forced out a flirtatious voice. "Yes, I noticed."

"You know muggles consider that a kink." She laughed again. Her hand now rested on the one on her throat. Then she brought her hand back to the hand around her throat and dug her fingernails into his skin.

"Granger, what the fuck?" He let go of her throat and took a step back, clutching his hand.

"You really thought, after all these years, I would even like you?" Hermione glared, dropping the charade. "What did you think would happen today? Did you spend an hour deciding what to wear? Were you dreaming about what you'd do when you got me alone when you added the toad's eye prematurely?"

She thought he looked wounded, but his face hardened before she could confirm it. Stone cold. "You really thought I would ever, in a million years, want to fuck you?" He hissed. "You really are daft. Merlin, you really do think everyone likes you. Why would I risk being inside someone like you? Salazar knows what I'd come back with."

She couldn't help but remark, "So you've thought about being inside me, have you?" Though she blushed as the words crossed her lips. She tried not to think about Draco Malfoy being inside of her.

He scoffed, and his smirk grew. "I never thought you'd be one to join my fanclub Granger. You'd be at the very end of the line if I had my pick."

"Give it up Malfoy, you practically seep sexual repression from every pore. You would stick your dick into anything with legs at this point—"

"Repression Granger?" Malfoy interrupted. "Researching my family, now butting your nose into my sex life– I'm flattered." He scowled, still holding his hand as if she'd broken it. Dramatic. "Potter and Weasley have you on a tight leash, thinking of trying something new? Obsessing over me to feel–"

"Obsess over YOU?" Hermione spat, stepping forward.

"YES!" Malfoy mirrored her.

Their faces were inches apart, though his was still much higher than hers. They both seethed, breathing heavily. On each inhale she could smell him now. He smelled like a mixture of mint, cologne and the cleaning solution from his sponge.

Hermione felt her cheeks burn. She really had thought about him, despite the bullying. She— begrudgingly— had imagined being this close to him before. More than once, she admitted to herself. She tried not to look at his lips. She hated him. Arrogant prick. Bully. But against her own wishes, she did. When she looked back up to his eyes, he looked hungry.

They stared at each other in silence for what felt like a decade. His eyes roamed and she knew he was lying. She knew from his expressions, the book couldn't lie. Intrusive thoughts continued to seep into her mind.

His hand on her neck. It had been... warm.

His eyes flashed. She opened her mouth, sucking in air.

Then she was on the wall, his full force pushing her against it. And his lips were on hers. Between hers.

His lips on hers were angry. Not sweet: he was proving something. She didn't kiss back— too busy thinking. Questioning. Analyzing. But she didn't pull away. She didn't protest– didn't stop him.

He pulled away, turning his head. She imagined a scowl on his face.

Then something— whatever she was searching for inside— clicked, and Hermione brought her hand to his jawline, sharp against her palm. She forced his head to face her.

"I'm never wrong." She smirked and crashed her lips to his.

The kiss was a battle for dominance. It was a war between hate and desire. Disgust and need. Passion and aggression. It was laced with hatred and it stung like acromantula venom. It wasn't romantic, like with Krum, but somehow, it was better.

Malfoy gripped her hair— didn't lace his fingers through it and stroke it, or even play with her curls. His fingers hooked around the hair tie holding her nest of curls out of her face, snapping it with a simple tug. His hand replaced it and he pulled her back back. Hermione groaned.

Malfoy's lips curled upwards against hers. He liked that.

An overwhelming heat bubbled inside her, burning from the highest point of her scalp to the arch of her feet. It radiated from her core like a warming potion— which she knew him to be skilled with from when he had beat her for ten house points from Snape in second year. Why was she thinking about Snape?

"Turn your fucking brain off, Granger," Malfoy mumbled against her mouth. She realized she had slowed.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't. Apologize." he hummed before returning to the kiss.

She grasped at his chest— felt how muscular he was underneath his luxury shirt that probably cost more galleons than she owned. Rich prick. Who wears a button up to scrub floors? She tugged at the buttons, hoping to destroy it in the process. One popped. She expected him to complain, scold her. Instead, he laughed and snapped a finger, lips never leaving hers. It was unbuttoned immediately.

She gasped. He didn't even have his wand!

He stepped back with a smirk wider than the Great Lake. His eyes scanned her body. She realized her back was arched against the stone awkwardly. She straightened.

"The things I could do, Granger." He breathed, eyes resting on her hips. "Innocent little Hermione Granger..." His tongue flicked over his lips again.

Hermione rolled her eyes. She stroked his chest under the open shirt— he was lean, muscles defined.

"Tell me, was it Potter or Weasley who taught you to snog like that?"

"Krum, actually," she chuckled nervously. "But he was never really... good at it."

Malfoy looked taken aback. He shook his head and tsked at her. "The Bulgarian? Really?" He watched her blush. "You could have done so much better."

"Oh, I suppose you mean you?"

"Believe what you want to believe, Granger. If you think I'm better—"

"Oh shut up, Draco."

"Draco?" He raised a brow. She had never called him by his first name before. He brought his hand to her throat again, leaning in close as their bodies would allow. She felt his chest against her breasts and held her breath– wondered if he had noticed. He practically growled as he said,"My name sounds good in your mouth, Hermione."

She met his hungry eyes and smiled, her mind turning to... other things. She tried to wink. This felt like the appropriate time— with him mentioning her mouth and all. She wasn't sure if she did it right, or got her point across but then his face shifted and she knew she had.

"Merlin," He muttered under his breath. With that, his grip around her throat tightened and he brought his mouth to her collarbone. He sucked on her skin like a peppermint candy: she was sure there would be marks to conceal later.

Hermione leaned against the wall, head tilted back as she gasped. She tried not to think about who she was letting pepper her neck with love bites. Or how he was squeezing her throat in a way that made her stomach flutter, and pushing his body against hers. Or how he was slowly tracing his hand down the back of her hip towards her arse. Even when his mouth began to dip lower, she tried to ignore the platinum blonde hair, as he dropped to his knees, head now at breast level. Anybody else. Think of anybody else.

"Can I show you my trick again, Granger?" He looked up at her, his breath hot against her shirt. He positioned his fingers as if he was ready to snap them.

"I don't have buttons—"

"You'd be shocked to learn that my parlor tricks extend beyond a button up shirt. Want to see?" He smiled. Actually smiled, as if he found himself to be the funniest man in the world.

She nodded with a chuckle. She heard the sound of his snap and then she was standing in her pink bra and underwear– absolutely nothing else.

"MALFOY WHAT THE—" Hermione scrambled to cover herself. "YOU GIVE ME MY CLOTHES RIGHT NOW!"

Malfoy laughed heartily, eyes gleaming. He pushed himself to his feet. "And if I don't?"

"Give me my clothes Draco." Hermione glared. This had all just been a sick prank hadn't it? She'd fallen for his scheme; steal her clothes and humiliate her.

He stared at her, still amused. "I don't think I will, Granger." The humor in his eyes turned darker. His gaze roamed. He sucked in air. "Christ."

"Look, if you think this is some way to get back at me for— for whatever— whatever I did..." She was certain a blush had crawled across every inch of her skin. The way Malfoy looked at her— she'd never been looked at like that.

"Get back at you?" He cocked his head.

"Yes. Some sort of revenge? I- I... Where are my clothes Malfoy?"

"The only thing I'm seeking revenge for is all the years you hid this," he pried her arms apart, which were her body's only shield. "The years you walked around with Potter and Weasley attached to you. The year you spent with Krum. The years I couldn't even get a good look at you without somebody coming to your defense. Taking you away."

Hermione's blush intensified. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was nearly naked in front of her bully.

"Did you fuck Krum?" He spat the name like he had once spat hers.

Her eyes shot open. She thought about telling him off, but she couldn't really. Not if tonight were to go the way she wanted it to. The way she suspected he wanted it to. "Yes, but—"

He stepped forward as she stuttered. He bent down, lips brushing her ear as he said, "Good. I won't have to go slow."


	2. II

September 13, 1996

Hermione gasped, but he filled the space between her lips with his own. And then his hands were on her bare back and her hips and her ass— everywhere, all at once. Her own hands moved on their own accord, grasping at his back, his chest, his stomach. Malfoy wasn't careful or calm as he groped her, but neither was she. She scratched at him, clawed at him— touched his lips, his neck. He gripped her hips tightly and bit at her skin. He slowed only to shrug off his shirt. Hermione felt a new wave of courage as she reached to unbuckle his belt before she could second guess herself. He smirked at her.

"Eager, I see."

"You want me to change my mind, Malfoy?"

"Fuck. No." He growled and helped her undo his trousers.

"No wandless magic this time?" Hermione quirked an eyebrow, trying to distract from the fact that she had now become increasingly less confident. Once the pants were gone... what was she supposed to do next? She thought of a million things but none felt quite right in the presence of Draco Malfoy.

"What's the fun in that Granger? You said you liked manual labor."

She let out a genuine laugh, less nervous now than before, but as soon as he slid the trousers down, the confidence dissipated. He snapped and the trousers disappeared entirely. She wondered where their clothes had gone as she tried not to shift her gaze lower.

Krum had led the way— had held her hand to guide her, but it seemed that was not Draco's intention. Which was odd, to say the least, because she'd always thought of him as a head pusher. Not that she thought of blowing him, ever. That would be absurd.

Malfoy palmed her breasts through her bra. She sighed. God, that felt good.

The reality of what she was about to do dawned on her. What was she even about to do? He'd probably had ten women before her, how could she possibly compare? Did she even want to compare? Did Draco Malfoy deserve a good fuck? She could— in theory— use him like a toy— use his experience to get herself off and do nothing in return. But would he get enjoyment from a bad shag? Did he have one of those virginity kinks? Was that why he was here now, and not with Pansy Parkinson, or Daphne Greengrass—

"Granger," Draco grabbed her chin and jerked it upwards to face him. He was irritated, somehow. "You are not going to stand here in front of me and think about me shagging other witches."

Legilimency.

How did Draco Malfoy know Legilimency? And how in God's name was he reading her mind right now? Had he been in her head the whole time? Wandless magic and now the power to read minds at will—

Before she could finish the thought he grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder. "If you're going to keep running that strange brain of yours," he huffed and she felt him begin to walk. "You're never going to enjoy this."

She opened her mouth.

"Don't."

"Get the fuck out of my head, Malfoy." She slammed her fists against his chiseled back. He didn't stop walking to wherever he felt the need to take her. "Put me down!"

"Okay."

And then he threw her on one of the elves' counters— the impact was startling. Hermione yelped. She tried to clear her mind, but the way he was looking at her fueled the fire inside. Hunger; need. No one had ever looked at her—

"Again." He groaned. "Shut. Up."

That sound— guttural, from the back of his throat— sounded like Lupin had when he changed— animalistic—

"Shut." He pushed on her chest until she was laying flat across the marble counter. "Up."

Hermione kicked her feet at him but he only grabbed them, grip firm on her ankles as he pried them apart. Then he yanked her forward until she could feel his skin through the fabric of her underwear. The blue cotton was undoubtedly drenched, she could feel the moisture dripping down her thighs already. She blushed a scarlet red. Could he—

"Yes Granger, I can feel your cunt. That typically happens when a man and a woman—"

"Not always a man and a woman, Malfoy." She blurted, kicking herself for being so awkward. It wasn't as if she was brand new to this. The only difference now was who she was doing this with.

"Out of all the things to say when I am seconds away from shagging your bloody brains out, you chose that." He scoffed. She shrugged to apologize but he stopped her again. Right, no apologies. He said nothing as he gripped her ass cheeks and lead her in a circular motion. Her core throbbed as it dragged against his stomach; the definition of his abs built valleys and mountains for her to ride.

"I suppose I haven't provided a distraction grand enough to keep you focused. My apologies, Granger." He remarked. "Though your muggle undergarments are already ruined."

Hermione could only groan in response; the friction he'd created felt heavenly. His fingerprints would surely leave bruises on her sides from the way he was holding her, but she didn't care– not now. She started to move with him, rolling her hips slightly at first, and then quicker— quicker.

He waited for her to find a steady pace before he removed one hand from her waist— still holding her tightly with the other. Her mind raced with a thousand possibilities, but he only chose one– or perhaps he concocted the idea all on his own. He traced his fingers across her stomach so lightly it felt like a whisper rather than a touch.

"Malfoy," she let out a sound halfway between a moan and a giggle.

His hand stilled, but there was a devilish glint in his eye that Hermione would have never imagined seeing on the great and noble Malfoy heir. "Ticklish?"

"Don't you dare." Hermione warned.

"You're no fun." He practically pouted.

Didn't know fun was in your vocabulary, arrogant—

"You can tell me to stop whenever." His hand was brushing against her boy shorts now, tracing tiny circles above her heat. His fingers trailed lower– lower– and then up again.

Dear God that drove her crazy, whatever he was doing. She instinctively tightened her legs around his waist, pulling his hand closer. She could only catch a glimpse of him before she threw her head back. He had been grinning. She would never tell him to stop, and he knew it.

"They won't teach you this in Hogwarts: A History, Granger; feel free to take notes," he winked and— while maintaining perfect eye contact, he snapped.

She was nude.

He had dipped a finger inside her before she could react. She browsed through every word she had ever learned to try to describe how it felt but nothing came close to fitting. Shut up. Don't let him win. It's good. Just good.

She was completely at the mercy of Draco Malfoy. His thumb hovered over her clit, doing nothing— teasing, letting her know what it could do, but what it wasn't. He held the one finger so perfectly still inside her, she could feel the blood rushing through it. She held her breath, waiting for his next move. But it never came.

"Malfoy."

"Granger." She could hear the amusement in his voice.

"Weren't- weren't you in the middle of something?" She practically screamed the words. His finger was so still— too still. She needed him to go on—

"I was waiting to see if you had questions before I continue the lesson."

She craned her neck to glare at him. "I swear to God, Draco—"

"May I go on?"

"Fuck yes," she groaned deeply. "Please."

He had won. She had let him.

Every nerve in Hermione's body began to pulsate as he pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled deliberately— Waves of pleasure rippled through her core with each push. He found a spot that made her wriggle against the counter. He wouldn't leave it alone. She bit back a cry when one finger became two, and Malfoy stilled. Good cry, good cry, she screamed internally, distrusting her real voice.

"Always wondered if you were a screamer." He chuckled, and the warmth of his digits left her folds.

"Draco Malfoy." Hermione's body was curled from head to toe. She had been so close— so close. So. FUCKING. CLOSE. She wanted Malfoy to hear that last part. "You—"

He eyed her playfully. What? A voice sounded in her head. She jumped, knowing it had to be him.

He snorted. She watched him carefully, the way she wished she could've before. He was gripping her breast with his left hand— had been pleasuring her with his right. As he removed his fingers, he was opening his mouth. Her eyes widened; no.

Shut the fuck up, Granger. And then he sucked the moisture from his knuckles. Loudly, she noted.

"Tastes like everything I shouldn't have."

She blushed, but anger bubbled in the place an orgasm should have been. "Charming. What are you doing now?" She hissed.

"Put your clothes back on, Granger—"

"No, I don't think I will."

"Have it your way then. Snape won't be long now. I'm sure he'd love to revoke every house point you have." His voice was cold again. He snapped nonchalantly and they were both fully clothed.

How dare he bring her to a cliff and leave her teetering on the edge like stray tumbleweed? Look at her like she was the last drop of water in a desert draught and then leave her to sit stagnant at the bottom of the bottle. Did he find joy in watching her squirm, riding out the last round of contractions from where his hands had been? Hearing her plead for him to continue, memorizing the way her voice sounded when he was in control— would that be enough fuel to get him off for the next few nights?

Her legs shook as she stood, considering what item would be best to hurl at his pretty, pampered platinum blonde head. Her eyes settled on the pails of soap-water on the floor, where they were supposed to be scrubbing.

The pail levitated as the thoughts circled her mind, no doubt due to another intrusion from Malfoy on her mind. I can't even defend myself now? "You foul—"

"Loathsome evil little cockroach!" He mocked her third year self with a shrill shriek.

She seethed, rationality rapidly escaping her. The bucket of water flew through the air and— surprisingly— emptied its contents onto Malfoy, and not her. She had done that. "Let me fucking finish, Malfoy!"

Their eyes locked. The double entendre hit her before she could proceed with her sure to be long winded tangent.

He winked. And then an intrusive image flashed in her mind, at the very forefront, like she was watching a muggle movie— one that wouldn't quite turn off. A woman— a girl— completely nude. Legilimency. "Get the fuck out of my head, Malfoy."

You'll like this one, Granger.

The girl's figure writhed and squirmed, bare breasts bouncing as she moved. Malfoy's little show and tell came with disgustingly realistic audio too; the girl hummed softly. Her face contorted, only to relax, then contort again.

"What, exactly, do the two of you think you are doing, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger?" Drawled the voice of Snape. Hermione leapt out of her skin, but the image wouldn't go away. When she glanced to the doors, it appeared behind Snape like a greenscreen projection. She stammered.

"Granger here learned a bit of wandless magic, didn't you mudblood?" Draco's voice was taunting, but the extent of the cruelty was something only she knew. She did her best to scowl in his direction. At least that could be genuine.

Snape began to scold them, but his voice was drowned out by Malfoy's intrusive imagination. The girl's hums became louder, higher pitched. A pace was established. Hermione felt the warmth in her core rise again. Felt almost as if... that was her. She held in a moan as something— some strange force— was thumbing her most sensitive areas. Everywhere, neck, breasts, clitoris, feet. The sensation was excruciatingly blissful. She did her best to stay upright.

"Clean up this mess and go straight to your dorms. I will see both of you tomorrow night, where perhaps you will learn your lesson and. Get. Along." Snape made a face, but there were bright spots in Hermione's vision now. Her chest rose and fell in sync with the girl in her mind.

Hermione couldn't help but feel seduced by the way the girl looked up at her— lids low and droopy, but amber eyes full of flames. Passion, that's the word. And then the vibrations in and on and around her body got quicker, faster, heavier. Snape was gone, so she turned to Malfoy and cried out. Her legs wobbled.

He seemed to notice because he had somehow travelled the room to catch her from falling— or perhaps he was already there. She couldn't tell. The image of the woman burned bright against her irises, illuminating more with each synchronized sigh.

When Hermione Granger came— body aching with euphoria— the image of the woman was gone. In its stead was Draco Malfoy's smug face. "I was only eighty percent positive that you'd come at the sight of yourself. So I added the vibration charm just in case."

"That was— that was me?" Hermione gasped, a tear leaking from her eye, still recovering from the earth shattering wave of pleasure. "She was..."

Distracting.


	3. III

September 14, 1996

Classes had always been organized between Gryffindor and Slytherin, or Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. For some reason, Dumbledore felt it was best to pair the two houses with the worst rivalry, likely because he found some sort of amusement in the outcome of this decision. She wondered if it was the old age which had led him to be so absent minded. Perhaps he truly didn't know how incredibly incredulous the pairing of the house of pureblood supremacist Salazar Slytherin and the "blood traitor" Godric Gryffindor truly was. However, she secretly suspected that he genuinely found pleasure in watching the chaos that ensued. The man was many things– wise, kind, powerful– but he could also be a conniving mastermind.

Fred and George had told her that the change only happened the year she, Harry and Ron had entered the school. All four houses had once sat in the same room, to promote inter-house unity. As Hermione entered McGonagall's extraordinarily spotless Advanced Transfiguration classroom, she wished she'd arrive at the school seven years earlier.

She was always early. She and Professor McGonagall had built a close student/mentor relationship over the past six years, and being early to class meant Hermione could hold a conversation with the older witch without receiving ridicule from her peers.

Everyone knew she was always early.

No one else ever arrived early.

But today, Draco Malfoy was sitting at his usual desk, with his feet propped on the table and a book in his lap. For a moment, Hermione thought he looked– almost– peaceful, with his quill between his teeth, eyes scanning the text on the page. His face was calm, void of the usual smirk or sneer. Without the arrogance he radiated on any normal given day, he was strikingly handsome.

Took you long enough, Granger. Thought you wouldn't show.

She shivered. She had nearly forgotten the way his voice sounded as it had pushed its way into her mind; it was jarring, to say the least. She reminded herself to research occlumency. She wondered how long he had been trespassing without her permission without her having any knowledge of it. Hopefully she had managed to conceal her most... intimate thoughts.

Hermione scanned the room. McGonagall was nowhere to be found. Not even the feline animagus was present. Perhaps the professor despised the platinum blonde in the room as much as the rest of the school did, so much so that she could not bear to be alone with him.

With the absence of their teacher, Hermione and Draco were completely alone. She stormed right up to him, and scowled. He wasn't looking at her again. She hated that.

"Look at me." She hissed. He was smug as he cocked his head upwards to her. She continued before he could "I don't know what you think you're doing. What you'll accomplish by doing whatever this," she waved her hand around the room, "–is, but it's not going to work. Yesterday was..."

"Blissful? Incredible? Breathtaking?" He smirked.

"A mistake." She muttered, lowering her voice. Don't think about last night. Nothing happened. "Tell me, did you plant those thoughts in my head? Manipulate me with your Jedi mind tricks into cooperating with your scheme? Did you plan the whole night out, up to the... vibrations?"

"Jedi?"

"Muggle reference. Forget it." She shook her head, forgetting that he was completely ignorant to any of her cultural experiences. No movies– she found it truly odd that wizards had moving pictures, but no television. No films. "Answer the question."

He sighed, closing the book. It was a transfiguration textbook. She realized it was upside down. He hadn't been reading at all. "I can't control your thoughts, Granger, only read them. But to further answer your question, the one you so badly want to ask: I haven't been snooping around that brilliant head of yours."

"I find that hard to believe," Hermione glared.

"I'll admit I've done it once or twice to figure out the answer to a question." He admitted. "But you always end up with a headache afterwards."

"You complete arse." She seethed, wishing he had lied instead. She would have known it was a lie, but the truth was still worse. How dare he invade her privacy like that? What gave him the right? How many times had he been first to raise his hand simply because she knew the answer?

"I find it hard to believe that you haven't even researched Legilimency enough to know how its side effects." He replied. "If I was barging in on your daydreams on a regular basis you'd be in the infirmary with a migraine every moment of every day."

She blinked. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd experienced a migraine before. None were severe enough for her to make the tip to ask Madam Pomfrey for a relief potion.

"Believe me. If I didn't pity the look on your face when your head begins to throb, I'd have read you like a book by now." He whispered, leaning forward.

Hermione stared at the wall behind him, attempting to ignore the implications of the statement. Don't blush. She heard footsteps from the hallway– approaching. There were voices. It was a group.

"But last night–"

"You let in like an old friend, Granger. It doesn't hurt with permission." He smirked, and turned to face the blackboard, first glancing towards the door.

It creaked open and Hermione scampered to her seat. She didn't believe him. She would never let Draco Malfoy inside her head. He hadn't asked when she'd thought of him and his Slytherin groupies, or of potions class while he kissed her. And how could he speak to her like that? The startling whispers only she could hear, clear as day, vibrating around her skull– she hadn't let him do that. How did he do that?

She wondered how it worked, the telepathic communication. Like a game of telephone? Could she intrude on his thoughts too? Could she fill his brain with images of spiders and snakes and figure out his greatest fear? No, he wasn't afraid of snakes– he'd used one in the duel with Harry a few years ago. Now that she thought about it, he'd always been advanced when it came to his spellwork. How was he so advanced?

The questions spiraled through her mind. She didn't pay attention when McGonagall entered the room in feline form. The witch transformed back into a human and Hermione didn't even flinch.

Can you hear me? Maybe she could do it. Maybe it would work. If Malfoy could intrude on her thoughts, how hard could it be?

Go away Granger.

So it worked.

It's not that complicated, don't flatter yourself. We already had a line.

Like a telephone line? Is this a brain call? She kicked herself for being so awkward. What a stupid thing to say.

What the hell is a telephone, Granger?

Do you not pay attention in Muggle Studies? She scoffed aloud, and then prayed no one could hear it.

It was an elective. Why would I pay attention? I had Theo do all my homework. Bloody overachiever, that one. You two would get on if– what was it you said? If we didn't buy into the "propaganda."

She remembered then that she was a muggle born, and that he was a pureblood who hated her kind and she shivered at the thought. He likely still thought she was the scum on the bottom of his shoe. She shook her head and turned to McGonagall. Had she been staring at him?

The professor was looking directly at her. Their eyes met and then the witch turned away, back to the class. She asked a question. Hermione did not raise her hand. Draco Malfoy did.

"It's a quick swish to the right and then an angled downwards motion, Professor."

McGonagall looked at her again. Hermione's eyes widened. "Very good, Mr. Malfoy, three points to Slytherin. Miss Granger, could you tell me what the incantation to transfigure an animal to a flower is?"

She swallowed and wracked her brain to remember the text, as she had not been paying the lesson any mind. "Animalis flaura."

The older witch smiled thinly. "And three points to Gryffindor."

Then she asked Harry a question and Hermione tried her best to stay focused. Parvati Patil, her table mate, gave her a look.

You said it wrong, Granger. It's floor-ra not fl-ow-ra. You sound like a bloody American.

Hermione cringed and wondered if McGonagall had already pronounced the incantation during the period of time she had lectured. Then she saw it was written on the board. 'Floor-ra.'

Perhaps if you weren't so distracted...

An image attempted to creep into her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and successfully blocked it. Malfoy. She warned.

Was worth a try Granger. I'm sure it'd be a real sight to watch you squirm.

Her cheeks grew warm.

I despise you.

The feeling is mutual, believe me.

They were silent for the rest of the class, but Hermione was still unfocused. When McGonagall dismissed the students, she asked Hermione to stay behind. Busted, Granger, Draco taunted. She told him to shut it and collected her books from the table.

"Hermione, are you feeling quite alright?" McGonagall cooed the second they were alone, like a mother speaking to her own child. That wasn't normal. "You seem... preoccupied."

Hermione wracked her brain for an excuse, and decided to stick with, "I'm feeling a little bit under the weather, Professor."

"You're flushed, Miss Granger. Do you know if you have a fever? Perhaps a trip to the infirmary would help?" The older witch offered, but Hermione shook her head. She knew Madam Pomfrey would send her straight to class without symptoms, and the worst possible scenario could occur– a detection spell would reveal her concealment charms along her neck and chest.

"I believe I'll be alright, Professor. Just a more little rest tonight and perhaps a quick tea from the kitchens will do the trick."

"I sure hope so." The witch gave her another thin smile. Something was... off. Hermione hoped with all her might that McGonagall hadn't noticed her staring at Draco Malfoy. That would be hard to explain.

They exchanged a silent goodbye and Hermione turned to walk away. She was halfway to the door when McGonagall said, "Tell Mr. Malfoy he had a paper due two days ago, won't you?"

Hermione nearly crawled out of her own skin. She sped out of the room, awkwardly fumbling with the door handle.

...

The rest of the day became increasingly difficult as Hermione realized that she would have to be alone with Malfoy once again tonight. She didn't want to think about the kitchen counter or the dark green boxer briefs he had worn; the feeling of his palm on her bare breast– no, the thoughts never crossed her mind at all.

Malfoy stared at her from across the room in Arithmancy. She felt it, but he would divert his eyes when she turned to face him. Snape seemed to have learned his lesson with yesterday's explosion, so she was paired with Theodore Nott instead, who was and always had been– respectfully– the hottest man at Hogwarts. That was difficult, since she had already been in a mood all day.

"Merlin, Granger, would you please stir the potion and stop staring out the window like a ? If you kill me with another one of your explosions, I will haunt you and only you until the day I finally decide to go to the light." Theo groaned, and rested his hand on top of hers, forcing her to stir their burn paste quicker.

"You'd be more likely to die at the hands of Draco Malfoy than me, Nott." She chuckled. "Let's pray that he makes it through class without blowing up his cauldron."

"Blame it on the pureblood," Nott joked. "That always works."

"How many toad's eyes do you have?" She asked seriously.

He looked down blankly. "One, two, three... Four I think. That's what the thing says isn't it?"

She stared at him. "You think?"

"Well, yeah, it's all paste now, so I can't exactly count them out, Granger."

"Slytherins." She groaned and snatched up his chopping board. She found the bin in the room and scraped the toad's eyes into it.

"Hey, I worked hard on that!" Nott called from across the room. Eyes turned towards him.

Hermione glanced at Malfoy, his eyes were on her. Do any of you even read the text?

What did Theo do now? He glanced like he didn't doubt her for a second.

She chuckled, walking back towards her partner. Eye of fucking toad. She groaned with irritation, hoping he could hear.

Should've let him blow it up. Invite him to the kitchens.

Hermione choked on air and peeked at the brown-haired, hazel-eyed boy to her right. Theo shot her a suspicious glance. She averted her eyes and pushed away the mental image of Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy alone with her at the same time. Her cheeks flushed.

"Do it again," She forced out.

"I don't want to." He sat down and crossed his arms nonchalantly. "You rejected my bloody eyeballs, do it yourself."

"Theodore, I'm stirring, remember?"

"You sound like my bloody mother, Granger." He huffed and stood in a visibly begrudging manner. He picked up the knife in his large, veiny hand and began smashing four eyes into a paste. Hermione was distracted by his hands, and forgot to stir the potion. It bubbled loudly. "Granger." He warned without looking up from his chopping board.

She snapped her head back towards the cauldron and stirred with all her might. She told herself to look anywhere else and think of gruesome, ugly things to dull the warmth inside. It was as if her activities from the previous night had broken a dam and now every drop of holed up tension was spilling out of her all at once. Control yourself, she scolded her own brain.

"You've got a little something on your neck, Granger. Weasley giving you hell?" Theo had been staring at her. She met his eyes– hers were wide, his gleamed at the sight of something, which– she realized– could only be one something.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath and stared at the floor. Her concealment charm was lifting. She brushed her hair forward, but Theo reached out and pushed it back.

"No, no, you've got to let me look at it now– looks like a bloody leech drained your blood, all purple and–"

"Shut up Nott, shouldn't you be smashing eyeballs right now?"

"It's like ten times darker than a normal love bite, Granger. Weasley must be one hell of a bedmate." The boy smirked, forced to lean down to be at eye level with her. He chuckled and her blush grew darker.

"Ron is with Lavender, for your information, and I'm sure he'd be rubbish in bed, Nott." She blurted, slightly louder than she'd planned. Heads at the neighboring table shot up. She prayed internally that Ron and Harry hadn't heard.

"Whew-hew Granger, hit a sore spot, yeah?" Theo sucked air through his teeth and lowered his voice. "So who's the blood-sucking rebound then?" He whispered with a wink. "Potter's with the weasel sister and Thomas and that other pyromaniac– what's his name, Seamus is it? He blows things up just as much as you do."

Hermione decided now was not the time to remind him that Malfoy was the one to cause the explosion.

"Anyways, they're the only other logical choices, but they're two whole fruits in a basket right now, so that leaves about zero Gryffindor candidates. The rest are hideous, really."

Nott's head was cocked now. She stirred furiously and glared at the cauldron.

How could she explain to her childhood crush that she did not get the love bites from a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff without telling him that she had nearly shagged his best friend– turning him into what they'd call a blood traitor in the process. Truly, she had no idea why Theodore Nott was so interested in her sex life all of a sudden, when they had rarely spoken greetings, let alone intimate secrets before.

Malfoy. Care to help?

No answer.

Theo was waiting for an answer from her though, so she mustered her best voice and said, "It's none of your business, Nott."

He leaned down further, "And why is that? Scared to admit the precious little Golden girl let someone get it in?"

"There was 'no getting it in,' you don't know what you're talking about." She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. "Add the eyes before the potion explodes."

Theo scraped his paste into the cauldron and grabbed his own wand to cast a stirring charm. "Allow me." She obliged and wished he would shut up. He didn't. "So you're telling me he did all that," his left hand nearly touched her neck. She tensed. "Poor bloke left with blue balls, Granger. Blue balls."

Theo tsked like he felt physical pain.

Malfoy. Your friend.

No answer. But she saw the blonde staring at her with a scrunched up face– lips pressed in a thin line. Are you really about to laugh right now, you absolute prick?

And then Malfoy let out a hearty laugh, the first genuine laugh she'd heard in public since God knows when. The entire class stopped to stare at him, except for Theo. Odd. Malfoy quickly covered, pretending he had dropped his supplies, and glanced up at everyone.

"What are you lot looking at, ey?" Malfoy retorted loudly. She'd forgotten how mean he could be. The class went back to work.

"Real wanker, Malfoy." Theo whispered to her.

She stammered. "What?"

"He can be such a git sometimes."

"Sometimes? Aren't you supposed to be best friends?"

Theo chuckled again, still stirring. His eyes were on her neck again. "Oh we are, Granger. Still doesn't change the fact that he's a prick."

"At least you've got a brain in there Nott."

"Please, Granger, call me Theo." He smiled at her. The potion was done. He removed his wand from the cauldron, and used his other hand to wipe it off. She grimaced. If they'd followed one single instruction wrong, burn paste could become burning paste, and it would– well– burn him.

"You realize you called me Granger in that same sentence, right?" She raised an eyebrow, ignoring him. Not looking at him. Not noticing how charming his little grin was. Not wanting to be on a first name basis with someone she'd often considered the idea of shagging.

"I know your name, Hermione, it's just a right mouthful. Too many syllables, really." He ran a hand through his hair. It was the one with the burn paste on it. She winced again.

"Nott, your hand–"

"Theo." He corrected her.

"Theo, your hand. It has burn paste on it. It could burn you..." She gave in to the urge to snatch his hand away from his cheek, which he was about to scratch.

She held Theodore Nott's hand in hers now, and retrieved a cloth from the table to wipe it with. She was certain her cheeks were bright as day now, but she hoped they'd been that way long enough he'd think it was warmth from the fire. "Merlin, does Malfoy babysit you? I can't imagine that was your first time." She shook her head, wiping furiously at his hand.

There she went with accidental double entendres again. She looked up, praying he hadn't noticed, but a smirk had formed over his face.

"He does, actually." The smirk was audible in his voice. He leaned in and his lips brushed her ear as he whispered to her. "Unless he's off snogging witches in the kitchens, of course."

Malfoy. Hermione could only hiss at the legilimens. Her head ached.

Maybe that was something he did often– what had happened last night. Maybe Theo just knew Malfoy's tactics. Maybe they shared tips on how to seduce women. That was something boys did, right? Maybe they bragged about whose pants they got into before they went to sleep at night. But a mudblood? There was no way Malfoy would brag about nearly shagging a mudblood to another member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Especially not her.

"Something he does often?" She played it off. Might as well gain intel, she thought to herself.

"Not really, no. I, on the other hand, have found the kitchens to be quite–" He leaned back again, breath gracing her ear. "Adequate, for that sort of thing." His fingers played with a strand of her hair now.

"Oh?" She breathed, her mind completely blank aside from intrusive thoughts. Thoughts about the brown haired boy standing only inches away from her. Theodore Nott. Theodore. Nott.

"Mhmm." He whispered, eyes flicking towards her mouth. She was convinced that was all in her head.

She looked around nervously. Avoid his eyes, avoid his eyes. No one was even looking at them. "Oh they still see me stirring the potion and you reading the textbook, Granger. Don't worry."

"H-How?" was all she could muster the words to say.

"It's a little spell I learned. Works a lot better than your rubbish concealment charm, I'll tell you that." He twirled her curl around his finger like a string. "Your hair is surprisingly softer than it looks Granger, you must tell me what you use in it."

"Uh– Muggle shampoo. Conditioner."

"Hmm, remind me to invest in whichever brand you use. Smells heavenly too. " He smirked.

"Theo." Someone chimed in.

Hermione snapped her head towards the voice. It was Malfoy.

"I can see you in her head Theo. Your concealment charm does nothing."

Hermione mentally cursed him and warned him to stay out of her thoughts, reminding him about the permission he'd been so adamant he needed. He hadn't lied though, her head really did throb now.

Theo let go of her hair and sighed. "I wasn't going to bite her, Malfoy. You did that enough for the both of us." His smirk was still wide. He looked at Malfoy and winked.

Hermione coughed.

"Warmed her up for you, that's all."

She seethed, "You actually told THEODORE NOTT, Draco?"

"My name sounds good in your mouth, Hermione." Theo chimed in, imitating Draco's voice. Hermione shot a glare in his direction. How did he even know about that?

"He's–"

"Your best friend does not need to know about–"

"Him finger fucking you in the kitchens? That's definitely pertinent information, Granger. I definitely think–"

"Shut the fuck up, Theo." She hissed, doing her best to keep her voice down.

"I don't think I will, thank you very much. You are not my–"

"Shut the fuck up, Theo." Draco barked. His attention turned back towards Hermione. "Granger I really don't think you have any right to tell me who to tell about our little adventures seeing as you likely would rather take the secret to your grave than–"

"So you're just boasting about the fact that you creamed your pants over a mudblood? I'm sure mummy and daddy will be–"

"I told you not to talk about my family, Granger." Malfoy growled. Theo laughed from beside them, they both glared. "And besides, you hardly touched me long enough to draw prec–" His eyes darted away from her. He cleared his throat and his eyes hardened.

"Come to save the day, Weasley?" His glare was ice cold, but he smirked. Hermione waved her wand ever so slightly, attempting to cast a concealment charm on her neck before anyone Ronald Weasley could question her about her hickeys.

"You alright, Hermione?" Ron put a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off, reeling at his touch. She did not want to talk to him. He'd caused her enough stress for a lifetime.

"Fine, thank you Ronald." She tensed. "Malfoy's trying to blow up my potion again, that's all." Her excuse left a twinkle in Theo's eyes and he pressed his lips shut like he was holding back a retort.

Ron turned his eyes to the two Slytherins and said, "Bugger off, the two of you."

"I'm fine Ron–"

"Don't let your girl toy see you with your hands on another witch, Weaselbee. Might actually smother you when she goes to sit on your face next time, ey?" Theo quipped. Hermione snorted but knew Ron's reaction would inevitably be a bad one. She winced when Ron's fist collided with Theo's cheek. He raised his arm to do it again.

"Ronald, that is enough!" Hermione hissed. Ron stilled, his fist in midair– he looked at her suspiciously.

"I deserved that one, I'll admit. Good right hook, Weasley. You should consider boxing." Theo chuckled nonchalantly, head cocked awkwardly from the blow of Ron's punch, but he seemed entirely unbothered.

What's boxing? It was Draco's voice. She almost laughed before she saw Snape floating towards them from across the room.

"Nott, Weasley, since you seem so adamant on interrupting my class with a schoolyard spat, I'm sure you won't mind joining Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy in detention tonight." Snape drawled.

Hermione wanted to scream.

"Oh I don't mind Professor. I think that's a wonderful idea," Theodore's snarky response broke the awkward silence between the four of them.

"Watch your mouth, Nott. And you," He jabbed his finger towards Ron. "Weasley, you just lost your house twenty points. We do not condone violence here."

Ron had been acting like a lunatic since he'd first announced he and Lavender were officially a couple. He was violent, and riddled with rage– the slightest of inconveniences or misunderstandings could set him off. She didn't even recognize him any more. But now he'd just ruined her unplanned rendezvous with Draco Malfoy.

I'm going to kill him. Hermione thought.

I'll do it for you, Granger. Might warrant a favor in return of course. Draco's eyes never left Snape as his voice filled her head. The greasy-haired professor was still lecturing Ron about the incredulousness of his actions.

Get out of my head, you prick. She shot a glare in the blonde's direction.

Snape glanced at her. "Weasley, you will meet me after class, I have a special reward for your insubordination. The rest of you will meet me after dinner. Eight p.m. sharp. A second later and I will deduct five house points per minute you waste."

They all groaned. Hermione saw Ron clench and unclench his fists. Git.

Snape dismissed the class and Hermione rushed to clean her cauldron. The second she and Theo had finished she ran out of the classroom. She just wanted to avoid everyone: Theo, Draco, Ron– hell, even Harry. She was in no kind of mood for social interactions.

Her feet took her to the one place she knew she'd be alone– the library. On a Friday, hardly anyone would even consider studying in the dim, disturbingly quiet area. She exhaled with relief when she found the room empty. She dropped her books on a table and slumped in the chair, running her hands through her curls to smooth them.

"This place is a right ol' bore, you know that?" A voice made her leap from her sitting position.

She looked up. Theodore Nott was in the seat adjacent to her.

He grinned.

She groaned.


	4. IV

Chapter 4

September 14, 1996

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you weren't excited to see me. I thought I already told you I don't bite, Granger." Theo said with a small smile. His voice was calm– smooth.

"I didn't think you would– you just... startled me." Hermione brushed a stray strand of hair back from the spot on her cheek where it had fallen and took a deep breath. She was fine. It was all fine.

They were quiet for a moment. Hermione decided it was safe for her to sit once more, as Theo had made no advances. He'd propped his feet up on the table nonchalantly.

"He talks to you, doesn't he?" Theo broke the silence, waving his hand towards his own head. "In here."

Hermione inspected him. Theo, being Malfoy's best mate, seemed to have more of an understanding of the blonde than she had assumed. They had always seemed so distant, despite spending most of their time together. All the Slytherins did, in fact. She wondered what it would be like to sit in the dungeons with them for an hour– if their stone cold exteriors dropped. Were they friends or simply acquaintances? Did the purebloods laugh and gossip late at night when no one else was around?

"It's rather chilling." She responded with a nod.

"I knew it!" Theo laughed. Hermione relaxed a little. His laugh was contagious. "You muttered to yourself in potions. That's how I figured out it was you, miss Golden Girl in the kitchens."

Hermione's eyes grew wide "Muttered? You mean you could actually hear me?" She hissed. Had Snape and McGonagall heard her muttering too? Was that how the older witch had known to bring up Draco?

"Just your lips. I was watching of course. Thought you were mental for a second. But you were staring so longingly at him and it clicked." Theo crossed his hands behind his neck and leaned his chair back so that it rested on the back legs. He's got a death wish, that one.

"How'd you know he could do that? The Jedi mind trick thing?" Hermione was puzzled.

Theo didn't seem bothered by the muggle reference– he smiled, even. "He used to stay up at night reading about Legilimenic communication."

Legilimenic communication. She resisted the urge to reach for a quill and parchment as he spoke. Where had she heard that term before?

"So I stole his book one day. Thought he'd disguised a porno mag. Was rather disappointed," He paused. "When it was not. I couldn't read past the first page. Fell right asleep."

"Did he ever talk to you?" That was the question that had been making its way through her mind.

Theo shook his head. "No, the boring book said it requires some sort of connection to set up a line. He tried though– thought since we were mates and all, it'd work. But apparently it's got to be deeper than that. And Malfoy doesn't swing my way. Shame, really. Strictly pussy, that one."

Hermione did her best not to gasp. She wondered if he'd been feigning attraction in the classroom. "You're like– Seamus and Dean?"

"Gay?" He laughed. That laugh again. Soothing– not sexy: soothing. "No Granger, anything with two legs and opposable thumbs will do."

"Even giants?" She quipped, then kicked herself once she realized it was at the expense of his sexuality. Theo didn't seem to mind, though.

His eyes gleamed. "Hadn't given that much thought. I suppose that's the exception to the rule. No giants."

A pleasant silence fell over them and her thoughts drifted to what he'd said. How Legilimenic communication required a 'connection.' She was spiraling at the mere notion that she could possibly have that with Draco Malfoy. A connection required, at bare minimum, caring or love or even just mutual respect. She and Harry had a connection, yes– they were practically brother and sister at this point– but they hadn't always. It had taken time, ups and downs. And yet despite their inseparability, she doubted she'd ever be able to project her voice into his cranium.

So was Legilimenic communication sexual in nature? If Theo's connection hadn't been strong enough, and hers had– did that mean that it required... something more?

No. She and Malfoy could not and did not have a connection. They'd gone from screaming to snogging in a matter of minutes, there was no connection to be made. There was no time or effort. There were no ups and downs, just years of name calling and shouting matches. No. There were only downs and then his hands were down her knickers. It had been a mistake, fueled by pure rage and lust, nothing more.

But Malfoy had said she 'let him' in her head. But she couldn't have. She hadn't meant to. Why did he want inside her head? What was so bloody interesting about poor Hermione Granger that could drive him to swim through her thoughts as if she had suddenly become the Great Lake? What could possibly be so interesting about her brain that he needed to intrude upon it while their lips were locked?

She cleared her mind. "Did you come to gossip about Malfoy, Theo? I think I'd like to know his deepest, darkest secrets if you're willing. Blackmail material– for the future when he starts acting like a prick again."

"I didn't actually. I came to gossip about you." He winked.

"Me? What could you possibly want to know about a mudblood?" The word slipped through her lips easily now. She had grown desensitized to the slur over the years. She predicted it would grace Nott's lips in class sooner or later, but it hadn't come— from either Malfoy or Theo, for that matter. It was as if they were holding back. Like something had changed. But what had changed?

"Ouch. You wound me." Theo clutched his heart. "You think I buy into that rubbish, Granger? You're the smartest bloody witch in our class."

"Malfoy disagrees." Hermione scowled.

"Malfoy is brainwashed."

"Oh and you're not?" As she said it, she remembered that he had never called her the slur.

"Malfoy," He diverted. "Struggles with modern thoughts."

"Doesn't give him the right to–"

"What's your favorite color, Granger?" Theo interrupted.

Hermione blinked at the shockingly casual question. "Red."

"How very Gryffindor of you." Theo chuckled. His chair was still leaning dangerously on two legs. Suddenly his balance wavered– as she knew it would– and he had to grip the table to keep from falling backwards. Hermione couldn't help but snicker.

"Don't pretend like your favorite color isn't green, Theo."

"It's yellow," He groaned. "It's torture wearing these bloody emerald robes day in and day out. It's hideous."

Yellow would be the last color she'd think of Theodore Nott favoring. Didn't purebloods have a strict dress code? Black and gothic and screaming wealth, with dragons hide loafers and velvet cloaks. Yellow didn't seem to fit into the mix.

"Don't believe me? My knickers are Hufflepuff gold, want to see?" A smirk grew on Theo's lips.

"Keep it in your pants, Nott." She turned her face to hide the blush rushing to her cheeks. And she didn't think about him in yellow underwear, or even wonder whether they were form fitting like Malfoy's had been, or loose like Krum's.

"You want to see them." Theo waved his hand out in front of him, voice monotonous as he spoke.

Jedi mind tricks.

"Theo, was that a Star Wars reference?" She bit back a laugh.

"That's the one with the lasers and the big scruffy guy, yeah?"

"Chewbacca?"

"Him. Loved that movie." Theo smiled. It was genuine. Hermione let out the giggle she had been holding in. It felt good to laugh with the new knowledge Theodore Nott didn't think of her and her kind as scum.

"How does Theodore Nott know about Star Wars, hmm?" She asked, oblivious to the fact that this question would set Theo on a tangent about Muggle movies. A long tangent.

Hermione wasn't sure how much time passed before she could speak again, but she now knew the entire history of her new Slytherin acquaintance's rebellion, and his secret excursions to the cinema nearest to his manor. And how he preferred the horror genre to action, but he thought the muggles were decades away from producing realistic gore. "All they need is one carefully cast jinx and poof," He imitated an explosion with his hands. "–a believable black eye. None of that rubbish purple powder they use." He scrunched his nose. He barely breathed between words.

She was dumbfounded by the pureblood's fascination with something she believed to be so pedestrian, something Malfoy would surely see as barbaric and unimpressive. Nott was full of surprises. She realized she was staring, but he didn't seem to mind.

Suddenly, Theo looked at the clock behind her and hushed mid sentence. He rushed to stand up and muttered something under his breath. She assumed he was late to a previous engagement. He looked at her and smiled thinly. "You know, you're not half bad, Golden Girl."

She took it as a compliment, though she wasn't sure it had been one. "For a Slytherin, you're surprisingly bearable," She responded.

"You've got us all wrong. We're not the enemy, Granger." He stretched and rolled his neck, massaging a spot right below his hairline. She tried her hardest not to find it attractive. "You'll find Slytherins to be very... possessive, above all else. Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends."

Hermione wasn't sure what he was alluding to, but she had a hunch that his words had hidden meaning. "I don't know what you mean." She watched him gather his things rapidly and head for the door. She raised her voice slightly. "It wasn't an insult, just an observation. Honestly, they're unfriendly, though you seem to be the exception. And–"

"We probably seem cold because we are, but the distance between us and you lot serves a purpose." Theo halted, his voice severe. He took a deep breath. "You don't realize, for us, there's just one wrong move before we're addicted to something– and trust me, it could be anything: drugs, power, fame, love, lust."

"It's blinding." He continued. "Distracting. Debilitating– all we can think about. I don't know about you, Granger, but in our families, distractions are punishable with pain. So forgive us if we're still too busy licking old wounds to risk earning new ones."

She swallowed, bewildered. Her heart sunk at the thought of Theo or Malfoy– or even pug-faced Parkinson– being beaten or cursed for a distraction. Even further, she wondered what the Sacred Twenty Eight's definition of a distraction was.

"For the life of me, I can't figure out what he thinks he'll accomplish." Theo scoffed. He seemed conflicted, face now riddled with a playful scowl, as if there was some cruel joke in his head that she was not privy to. "But there's no such thing as a quick fuck. Not for purebloods."

So this was about Malfoy. Why had everything become about Malfoy?

"He's my best mate, Granger, and you're dangerous." His eyes narrowed, staring directly into her own. "For both of us."

She shivered as his eyes trailed along her body in a way not even Malfoy's had. "But Merlin, it just might be worth it."

"See you in the kitchens, Goldie." He turned back to the door, voice light again. "Might want to wear something nice."

...

Later that night, when Hermione neared the portrait of a fruit arrangement at five minutes to eight, she nearly groaned at the sight of the last person she wanted to see. Ron. His back was turned, but she could see his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned a bright white color. He radiated anger, from the redness on the back of his neck– which was nearly covered by one of Molly's signature sweaters– to the hunch of his shoulders. She wondered how this was the same person she had fought alongside in the Department of Mysteries. He had become a poltergeist of the boy she once knew. They were only two weeks into their sixth year, and he'd already made an enemy out of every student he'd met.

She made an effort to silence her footsteps to avoid a confrontation but he turned towards her as if he'd sensed her presence. A scowl plastered across his face.

"Hermione," He muttered as if her name qualified as a proper greeting. She nodded in response.

"Ronald."

A monotonous voice sounded from behind her, "Weasley, Granger, I see you are both on time."

Hermione sighed, relieved at the presence of someone else to serve as a buffer to the inevitable hell Ron would raise. She knew him well enough to anticipate retaliation for the lack of support she'd shown for him in potions. Snape glanced around the hallway, likely searching for Theo and Malfoy, but the two were nowhere to be seen. "Pity, ten points from Slytherin already. I suppose the two of you can work without them as they seem to be too preoccupied to attend their own punishment."

Hermione gulped, doing her best to avoid Ron's cold eyes. She could tell they were bloodshot just from the way he was squinting at her. A chill ran up her spine– she was in this moment more afraid of her best friend than she had been of her ruthless bully.

"Miss Granger," Snape drawled as he touched the peach on the portrait. It animated and wiggled, before the wooden frame swung open. "I expect there to be no wandless water fights this time."

He waved for the two of them to enter the kitchens. She let Ron stomp inside before she followed cautiously. Snape slammed the portrait behind her, almost clipping her rear in the process. She exhaled deeply, knowing what would come next.

"So you took their side over mine, yeah?" Ron was already facing her. He looked ready to hit her.

She flinched. "I didn't, Ron. You know I didn't."

"Oh, then you're too good to stand up for your best friend? That it?" He seethed.

"No– you can't expect me to stand by and watch you assault a classmate–" She physically rolled her eyes at his incredulous behavior. What had gotten into him?

"I was defending you, Hermione, in case you didn't notice," He shouted. She was sure Snape, who was standing outside to wait on the two Slytherin boys, could hear every word.

"I noticed you were acting like a right old prick, that's what I noticed, Ronald." She was screaming too. She didn't care anymore.

"A prick, huh? Is that any way to talk to your best friend?" He was stepping closer now, like Malfoy had, except his eyes were darker, more cold than the blonde's had been. She shivered under his glare. "That's what I am right? Or have you cozied up to the snakes now?"

"I will speak to you however I wish, and however you deserve to be spoken to. And right now, you're throwing a tantrum like a toddler." She hissed. "Are you quite done yet?"

Ron was now taking larger steps in her direction. She didn't step back, though. This was a fight she was going to have, whether he liked it or not. He needed to know what an imbecile he'd become, and she would be the one to tell him. She seemed to be the only one who even cared. Harry had scoffed once or twice at how untethered the ginger had become, but never brought it up again. Then again, Harry had some issues of his own. The two boys would exchange subtle greetings in the hall like nothing happened. Like last year had not happened. Like they had not watched Bellatrix Lestrange kill the closest thing Harry had to a father. Like they had not been so distraught that the only way they could sleep was huddled together on the dusty red couches in the Gryffindor common room. Like they had never even been a trio.

Ron was close enough to touch now. Then he suddenly flew back, his back hitting a cabinet in the process. She turned. It was Malfoy. He looked disheveled.

"Weasley, I'd highly suggest that you stand down before you land us all in another detention." Malfoy snapped, a warning clear in his voice. Alright, Granger? His voice boomed in her head.

I could have handled that myself. She tried her best to keep her lips shut as she said it, praying that Ron wouldn't see her 'muttering' as Theo had said.

Sure, Granger.

"You sneak your wand in, Malfoy?" Ron's eyes were wide, searching for a wand in Malfoy's hand. "Can't clean the floors yourself?"

"Wandless magic, Weasley. Something you'll likely never accomplish." The blonde quipped, face arrogant again. Stone cold.

"You watch your mouth, Ferret." Ron's back was still against the cabinet as if Draco's spell was holding him there.

"And what exactly are you going to do, Weaselbee?" Theo walked through the portrait. Snape, to Hermione's surprise, did nothing but shut the frame behind him with a glare in their direction. So much for protection.

Theo and Malfoy both looked uncharacteristically untidy, clothes wrinkled and hair askew. There was a bruise forming on Nott's cheek, opposite of where Ron had socked him. Hermione eyed him suspiciously. Theo above all else looked tired, his eyes drooped as he looked back at her. She wondered what he would say right now if he could speak in her mind like Malfoy.

Did you two fight a centaur in the forest? She joked in Malfoy's head.

No, he responded absently. She quirked a brow. He didn't meet her eye.

Ron struggled against Draco's spell, shouting curse words and insults at all three of them, Hermione included. The stand-off continued until Professor McGonagall stepped into the room. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Weasley," Theo was out of breath. "Has gone bonkers. Tried to attack Granger."

McGonagall turned towards the redhead with disappointment. "Mr. Weasley, you will follow me to my office immediately. The rest of you will clean the floors as you were instructed to do."

Hermione was flooded with relief, but then tensed at the realization that she would, in fact, be alone with both Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy at the same time. She felt a blush creep across her face. "And Miss. Granger, I expect no funny business from you, understand?"

Hermione gaped at the older witch. "I– I'm not sure I do understand, professor."

"I believe you do, Hermione. Now, Ronald, you will come with me." The witch nodded curtly and turned on her heel. "I expect the room to be spotless when we return." With that she exited the room, Ron following closely behind.

"Now that that's sorted," Theo turned towards her with a glint in his eyes.

"No." Hermione turned her gaze to the floor, fighting a smile. "Whatever it is, no. I'm not getting another detention for the two of you."

"What do you think I was going to say, Granger?"

"What was it you were going to say?"

"Have you ever been to Paris?" He quipped. She raised a brow and shook her head, confused.

Malfoy let out a weak laugh and turned towards his best friend. "Theo. Scrub the floor before you get us all in even deeper trouble." He said, feigning sternness. She could still hear the humor in his voice, though.

Hermione squinted at them, wondering what in the world the two were laughing at. She noted to herself to ask Harry if Paris was an innuendo. That would be an awkward but necessary conversation. She would, of course, have to lie about where she'd heard it.

The rest of the night was filled with an oddly comfortable silence, with a few jokes from Theo, and complaints from Malfoy about the work. But the two seemed... off. Not like they usually were– distant and cold– but... disgruntled was the word she would use for it. The two Slytherins exchanged looks multiple times throughout the night and Hermione wondered if they, in the time the three had been apart, had mastered Legilimenic communication, and established their own connection. She swallowed her questions though. She didn't feel like being intrusive. At least not tonight.

The one question she did allow herself to ask, to Malfoy and Malfoy alone, was: Are you okay?

His head shot up. He met her eyes– his were wide. And he didn't respond in her head, didn't make a remark. He just nodded.

It was unconvincing, to say the least.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning!! Addiction, depression and some violence in this chapter!! This is NOT smut!

September 13, 1996

Draco Malfoy was tense and soaking wet when he returned to the dungeons. Every muscle in his body ached from the weight of the secret on his chest, a secret so cruel he felt as if he had already lost himself trying to forget. He had already lost himself. Lost everything, really. But Hermione Granger, she'd made him forget.

She'd made him relax, if only for an hour. It had been the worst experience of his life, and likely the best of hers. And he felt, in the bottom of his soul, empty. Wonderfully empty and horribly hopeful. Hopeful that somehow, he'd succeeded without even trying. Hopeful for a future he had already lost sight of. Just hopeful.

Hope was a poison. And all poisons had an antidote.

"That's enough Draco! You're on your second bottle," Blaise Zabini reached for the firewhiskey in Draco's hands, but the blonde yanked it back, sloshing droplets of the putrid liquid onto himself in the process.

"She moaned. Moaned, Blaise." Draco slurred. Her noises– she had purred. She purred like– like a bloody feline, she did. Like a whore.

"What are you lot on about?" Theodore Nott sat upright in his bed, curly hair askew. He scanned the dimly lit room until his eyes fell upon Draco. They widened.

"You managed to sleep through the worst of it, bloody bear." Zabini groaned, running a hand over the silk of that strange muggle cloth always wrapped around his head. A 'durag' Draco thought he'd heard him call it. The boy stomped back to his own bed. "Malfoy's been crying over pussy for the past three hours."

Malfoy wanted to gag, to choke, but he could only manage a sob. Pussy— what a vile word. Cunts. His mind drifted to cunts. Yes Granger, I can feel your cunt, he'd said. What had she said?

"Not always a man and- and- and a woman, Malfoy. Not always a bloody—" He threw his head back and chugged half the alcohol in his bottle.

"Did he get into Pansy's stash? The rubbish we hid?" Theo asked Blaise. The darker boy shook his head. "Malfoy. Malfoy, look at me." Theo raised his voice. Draco snapped his head towards the brunette. "What— look at me— what did you take?"

"Nothing— nothing." Draco gripped the firewhiskey in his hands. Held on for dear life. Antidote. "Th— this. Yeah. This." He held the bottle up weakly. Cheers.

Blaise and Theo exchanged worried glances. Draco scowled. They could take their worries and shove them up their bloody arseholes, for all he cared.

"It's two in the morning, Drake, go the fuck to bed." Theo sighed. He slammed his head back into his pillow. Drake. Draco hated that name, so inevitably, that's what his mates called him. Names.

She'd said his name. His first name.

"My name— My name sounds good in your mouth." Draco choked. "Her mouth. My name— she said my name, Thee. She said my bloody—"

"Salazar, Blaise. Shut him up!" Shouted Adrian Pucey, their fourth roommate, who had been holding his pillow over his face in what looked like an attempt to suffocate himself.

"Let him have this one, Pucey. He'll pass out soon. He's plastered already." Blaise eyed Draco with pity. Pity.

I pity you. The mudblood. She pitied him? With her filthy hands, and her bushy hair. Malfoy chuckled maniacally. She didn't seem to pity him much when he was knuckles-deep inside her core. Didn't fight. No, she loved it, he knew from her thoughts. Her jumbled, filthy, impure thoughts. Bloody witch. Not such a prude now, are you Granger?

You are not that dense. You can't be. And if you are, I pity you. How dare she speak to him like that— like a child? Like he was beneath her. How dare she tell him what he was, what he should or shouldn't believe. Draco's tears burned hot. "I pity you, you fucking—" He snarled aloud at the image of her in his mind.

"Silencio." Adrian screamed. Draco moved his lips but no sound would come out. He glared at Pucey— the half-blooded git. But the boy paid him no mind, choosing instead to roll over and yank the emerald green comforter over his large head.

The silence was deafening. Draco's thoughts festered without the stimulation of his own voice to keep him anchored. He slammed his fists on the bed in protest but Theo and Blaise just stared. Let me talk, damn it! His chest rose and fell as he sucked in air like each breath would be his last. When would he take his last? When would she take her last? Had she already?

Mum...

Draco's face burned red hot with rage. At the mudblood, at his father, at Adrian for silencing him and at Blaise and Theo for simply sitting there. He was angry at himself, too. At what he had to do. His heart— it felt like his heart was collapsing. Darkness, sweet, sweet darkness clouded his vision. And he was so, so hot. He was boiling inside his own skin.

He had been burning from within since before the detention, since he'd stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express. But that had been a simmer. The boiling began while he touched that bloody mudblood. He wondered if he had contracted a disease from her lips, her fluids. He hoped he had, and that it was as muggle of a disease he could get. Something the healers couldn't cure; something to kill him. He hoped he was dying, hoped he was fading, but the thought of death brought more panic to the surface. He couldn't die. He had to stay. For Mother. For Father. He looked around the room at his mates. For them, too.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't speak. Draco Malfoy was helpless. He'd grown rather accustomed to the feeling.

Pansy was there before he even twisted the ring on his left hand. Before he even called out to her. At the door, he could sense her. He stilled. Silence. Horrible silence. But then there came her knock, her signature knock. Two taps. Silence. Two subtle taps. He wanted to call out to her, verbally. He wanted to hear her answer. He wanted to watch his mates crane their necks at the sound of her voice. To acknowledge her, so that he knew she was real. Was she real?

Blaise was the one to let her in. "He's in a fit, P. I don't know what else to do."

Had Zabini summoned her? Draco wanted to thank him, but his voice was still silenced. He reminded himself to curse Adrian in his sleep as soon as possible.

Pansy nodded curtly at Blaise and turned towards Draco. Her eyes were soft, bloodshot, but kind. He wondered if he was to look, whether her pupils would be dilated— whether antidote was coursing through her veins too.

Draco. She didn't move. He wanted her to move. To show him that clocks were still ticking and the bloody planet was still spinning. Motion, motion was good. Motion was concrete. Undeniable. Real.

Pans, I did it. He wanted to heave as he pushed the words into her mind. Like he had with Granger. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I...

She knew. She always knew. And then she was there at his bed, inches away. There. He reached out to her helplessly and she cooed aloud, only for him to hear. He saw her grip her wand. "Sonorus."

"Pansy," was all he could croak out before another wave of scalding tears spilled from his eyes. He choked on the beginning of a word, and gave up on the rest.

Theo and Blaise were watching, he could feel their eyes shift from him to the girl in front of him, then back to him. They understood, if only to an extent, that only Pansy could help. They knew, because they felt it too. Only Pansy could help.

Pansy climbed onto his mattress and filled the space beside him. He felt it barely shift her weight– she'd grown so skinny. Barely a feather, now. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face to her chest. It's okay. You're okay. Her voice boomed in his mind.

He sobbed against the fabric of her nightshirt. It was cotton. Granger's knickers had been cotton. He bawled even harder. I'm not, Pans. I'm not! You don't know. You don't understand, I–

She shushed him because she did know. She could feel it, like he could feel her. She knew. She always knew, like she knew now to speak aloud like he so desperately needed her to. "Not now. But you will be, Draco. You will." Her voice was severe. Comfortably harsh. She gripped the sides of his head and forced him to face her. Her hands were cold– soothing. Her eyes were warm. They were that bright emerald green. Like always. Emerald green: Pansy.

She was real. He softened. She was real.

Show me, she breathed, her eyes never leaving his.

So he relived it, for her. Every bloody minute of it, from the toad's eye to the kitchen floors and that damned sponge. How easy it had been to set Potter's mudblood off with a mistake as elementary as adding too much of an explosive ingredient to her precious burn paste. And how Snape had inspected him knowingly– how a failed potion had suddenly become worthy of a two hour detention.

He could feel Pansy standing with him in the memory, watching as he prepared for the task. Watching as he had skipped dinner to ensure he would have nothing in his stomach to expel once it was happening. Then it was happening. All it took was a few complaints and a soapy floor, and Granger took the bait. Fought him. But her words stung. He didn't think they would sting. He'd put his lips on hers. A test. She didn't reciprocate. Then 'I'm never wrong,' and they were connected once more. She'd failed.

Pansy's arms tightened around his torso in the present, and he couldn't show her more. Didn't want her to see Granger in the positions he'd put her in. The counter. No. Pansy shouldn't have to see that. He shut her out and slammed his doors, then pushed the memory so far back he hoped it wouldn't resurface.

But it bounced like a quaffle off the walls of his mind. The sounds, the skin, the bitter taste on his tongue as he told Granger what he wanted her to hear– played his role. The way he broke at the look in her eyes. The need. The desire. The way she gripped his shoulders, digging her nails in as if she hoped to leave marks. He wondered if she'd left marks. And the feeling of her tongue in his mouth. The feeling of his skin crawling and his blood rushing at the same time. Of his ancestors rolling in their graves as he pushed her against that wall. She was lukewarm to the touch. But her insides had been on fire. On fire like him.

It was the mudblood's mind that had unnerved him most— sent him scrambling so far from the plan he'd established. The feeling of being inside her brain was the worst. It was intimate. She had let him in— had opened her mind to him before he had the chance to rap on its door. It had been so easy. She had caved under his touch. Blushed under his stare. She was weak. Had no training in occlumency, not even of the natural kind. It was almost as if she wanted him in. Had he known how easy it would be, he would've skipped the fight and simply backed her into that damned wall the moment Snape left them alone.

But when he was inside of her, mentally, he couldn't come out. He dove into her depths with no rope, no ladder, no boat to use to return to shore. Hermione Granger's mind was like a novel, a long and tedious novel. He was so busy reading he had forgotten what he was searching for. All of his world faded away and it had only been him and her. It was almost comforting. His muscles had loosened.

At the forefront of her mind were pages of her childhood, like she had organized her thoughts into a chronological autobiography. He had skimmed through a school full of little muggle children. Of a girl named Candace who pushed Granger down the stairs. He felt her rage, pent up rage at the muggle girl in her story. He shared the sentiment. Then he read of her parents, who touched teeth for a living. How barbaric. Her parents had tried to fix her teeth after Candace knocked them out when she was nine. He thought they'd done a horrible job, at least the first time. He'd trailed his tongue over her canines and wondered if it was Candace again who caused them to be fixed a second time. He was years away from that page, though.

Between every page, he could hear as she thought of him. As he touched her, she thought of him. And she tried her very best not to. And it made his legs tremble. he tried his very best to hurt her, to make her tell him to stop. But it had only made her think of him more. And then he thought of her too. And she heard him. She could hear him, like Pansy could. Like Mother could.. How had she heard him?

Draco. You did what you must. Pansy's voice snapped him out of his daze.

She didn't know how wrong she was. She would know if she saw the way he brought the mudblood to her edge, watched her squirm, heard her scream. But no one, not even Pansy, could ever see the rest of this night. His goal was to distract the girl by any means necessary. But he'd continued. He'd let Granger finish. He had given her what she desired. He had done to her exactly what she wanted him to. And he'd enjoyed it, because the mudblood was just so damn distracting.

No, Pans. I did so much more. I–

She shook her head. "You're okay, Draco. It's okay." She pulled him towards his pillow so that they were laying flat, side by side. She hummed and stroked his hair, like his mother used to. But now, only Pansy did that. Only Pansy could help. Her hands were so cold, like burn paste. He was burning. He nuzzled into them. His heart was okay– it was becoming okay. She was breathing so he was breathing. They were in sync. He was becoming okay.

"Is he alright now?" Theo asked softly. Draco hadn't been sure his roommates would be awake, but they were. They always were.

"Yes, Theo. He's calm." Pansy whispered, still stroking Draco's hair.

"Goodnight, P. Night Drake." Blaise muttered groggily. One of the two boys yawned.

Draco could feel Pansy nod in response as his eyelids began to droop. Then he once again fell asleep in his best friend's arms with a belly full of whiskey. This was their new normal. This was their peace. Only Pansy knew the way the nightmares crept in the dark, only Pansy could make them go away. She had seen them too, the ones that didn't disappear whether or not you were waking– the ones that were real. This was the price they paid to be born two descendants of the Dark Lord's most loyal servants. This was the price to be a Death Eater's protégé.

...

September 14, 1996

When he awoke, the bed was cold and the room was silent. He was alone, with only a note from Pansy laying on his nightstand which read: Remember why. Don't lose sight of the end. For her. It was vague in case Theo, Blaise or Adrian found it. The less they knew, the better.

His head pounded. He found his stash of sobering potions and chugged it. It tasted like mud– like sludge sliding down his throat. Good.

The pounding in his head nearly drowned out the tapping that came from the window; he turned to see a large black owl with blue piercing eyes. His mother's. He rushed to open it, feeling a gust of warm air assault his face, which had already begun to burn red hot without Pansy's cold hands. "Mona," he greeted the owl with a scratch on the head as she hopped into his dorm. The letter in her beak was thin, barely just a scrap of parchment. It was dated from three days ago. He knew it had been intercepted– checked for treason.

Draco,

All is well. It would be lovely to taste a chocolate from Hogsmeade again, if you get the chance. The new elves don't bake sweets like the others. You know how much I love sweets.

Love,

Mummy

Draco wondered what she meant by 'new elves.' Had Topsy been freed since he'd returned to school? He hadn't bothered to learn the others' names, the kitchen elves and the cleaners but he still wondered their fate. He shivered and imagined the worst.

He quickly wrote a response, telling her he was enjoying sixth year– a lie– and promising a parcel of chocolate frogs and peppermint imps, her favorites. He didn't ask questions; he knew she couldn't answer.

Pansy was missing from breakfast. So was Adrian. Draco's appetite was gone but he still sat with Blaise and Theo and planned his day. Granger was sitting at the Gryffindor table with the Weasley girl, the pyromaniac and his boyfriend. He'd noticed Potter was predictably absent as well. It seemed as if there was animosity between the Golden Trio. The Weasel always attached to Granger's hip was at the far end of the table with his overbearing girl toy. They were fighting. He could use that.

Then it was time for him to slip into character once more. He dreaded it. She always showed up to Transfiguration early. So he did too. He used Theo's signature concealment charm to look as if he was reading his textbook, and turned to face the door, to watch for her. When she arrived he spoke in her mind. They fought. He teased her. She blushed.

Then Hermione Granger's voice sounded in his mind and he squeezed his lips tight to contain a gasp. With no training, she had mastered Legilimenic communication. She had hooked onto their impossible connection, tethered herself to the line he used to speak to her previously, and invaded his mind. Can you hear me?

Draco felt panic rise inside him, like it had the night before. She had no right to be in his mind. He wanted her out, wanted to ensure she could never intrude upon his thoughts again. He told her to sod off. She didn't. She kept running that mouth of hers, but the sound was something only he could hear. He used it, acted unbothered. But he wanted nothing more than to turn to Pansy and call for help.

Pansy never showed. Neither did Adrian.

Transfiguration was hard, but potions was harder, because he quickly realized that his plan was going awry. Theo was beginning to put two and two together, staring at a spot on her neck. He cursed himself for leaving marks on her skin– evidence. It was supposed to stay a secret. She knew that, and called to him for help, to create a distraction. He couldn't move. What if Theo knew?

He pushed himself into Granger's mind to watch, not caring if he left her with an aching head. "Poor bloke left with blue balls, Granger. Blue balls." Theo quipped.

Malfoy, your friend.

Draco burst into laughter, genuine laughter. Couldn't help himself. He felt relief. Maybe Theo didn't know. Maybe his secret was safe. He quickly covered for himself and told the class to sod off too.

But then Theo and Granger were too close. Too close. And then Theo said something about the kitchens and Draco knew that he had been discovered. He watched as Theo and the mudblood appeared to be working on their potion, but in her mind he was toying with her hair. He's going to fuck this up, Draco thought to himself. He's toying with me.

"Theo." He was standing behind them in an instant, hadn't even realized that his feet had brought him to their table until he was already there. Theo dropped the concealment charm. Draco shot him a warning glance. He saw Theo bite back a laugh. Git.

Then Theo stopped. And Malfoy was relieved, but then the Weasel showed up and mucked it all up– punched his best mate. Draco wanted to sock him in the stomach until he spit up blood. Wanted to curse the ginger and hear him scream. His job was to protect Theo. And Blaise. And Adrian and Pansy. The poor little blood traitor had laid his hands on one of them, and Draco felt as if he'd just let all of them down. One was hurt, they all were hurt.

He cast a silent healing charm on Theo's cheek. He clenched his fists and held in the rage. Held back his violence. It would do him no good. He couldn't go back and change it.

Snape was there, and Draco pleaded with him silently. Couldn't speak into the legilimens' mind, but he knew that Snape knew. Snape knew of his mission, and he still put them in the kitchens. Put Weasel and Theo with him and Granger. Draco scowled.

When potions class was over he watched Granger storm off. He didn't bother following her. He'd done enough acting for the day. Instead, he stormed to the room of requirement, the one place he knew he could be alone. All he needed was something to hit, to curse, to blow into a million little pieces. He wanted to destroy something, to watch it break in his hands. In his head he built a mental image of what he needed from the room. A maze of glass. That would do it– even better if it was mirrors instead, so he could watch himself do it. See himself be the villain. See who he'd eventually become. What his enemies would see.

But someone was following him from the moment he left the dungeons. He could feel their eyes on him. They'd silenced their footsteps, but he sensed them there. He took the long way to give the appearance as if he was simply roaming the castle, not bothering to check behind him. He hoped they would sod off, but his shadow did not leave. He turned into an empty classroom.

Harry Potter walked into the door. "Should've known it'd be you, scarhead."

"Save the snide remarks, Malfoy. I don't care." Potter was livid, Draco could tell. "What were you doing with Hermione?"

"I had something to discuss with Nott. Granger was just there." Draco lied with a shrug.

"You stay away from her, understand? I know you're up to something, and I'll figure it out if it's the last thing I do." Harry warned. "If you hurt her–"

"Do you really think I would waste my time on a mudblood, Potter? Is that what you think of me?" Draco wanted so badly to retort something about how he wasn't a blood traitor but the silver ring around his finger burned. Two taps. Nothing. Two taps again. "Pansy." He muttered before rushing to the door.

"Where do you think you're going, Malfoy? Running away like you always do?" Potter blocked the exit. Malfoy was at least three inches taller than him, and about a thousand times more muscular, but he didn't have time for a brawl.

"Believe it or not, I have much more important matters to attend to than arguing with the bloody Chosen One about one of his little girlfriends." Draco hissed and pushed Potter out of the way. He didn't bother walking calmly. He ran the distance to the dungeons, wishing nothing more than to apparate to her. It felt like an eternity before he reached the Slytherin portrait.

"Pudicitiam," He felt like shouting. Purity. Pansy rarely used the ring. She thought it was stupid. She never needed help. Never asked. Thought she could solve everything on her own. But she'd used it, she'd summoned them. And Draco's heart was in his throat. He tugged at the portrait to open it quicker, and burst into the common room. It was empty, except for three people: Astoria, Pansy and Adrian. Adrian was sprawled on the floor.

"What happened?" He stormed towards them. But he knew. He could see the needles on the table next to them. Astoria's eyes were glazed over; Pansy's were bloodshot and dark. Pansy wasn't moving. Pansy? She didn't respond.

"He– He used too much. He–" Astoria cried. Her voice echoed off of the glass ceiling. The mermaids were gathered around the windows, looking in, shouting so loudly he could hear them through the barriers.

Theo was next to burst into the room, panting, out of breath. "Pansy– what–"

Draco snatched the syringes off the table and held them up for Theo to see. Astoria started bawling. Adrian and Pansy were silent. "Probably happened last night. Found where we hid her stash."

Theo's eyes turned to Adrian, who seemed to be reacting the worst to the drugs. Theo rushed to his side, pressing a finger to his pulse point. "You get Pansy, she probably won't let me touch her. Only you."

Draco nodded. He grabbed Pansy's hands, they were ice cold. PANSY? He cried, his voice failing him.

Draco. She turned her head so slowly towards him he barely noticed the movement.

Pansy why? Why would you do this? You told us you'd stop, you said–

"I can hear her s– screaming, Draco. I can– I can hear her– in here." She jabbed her finger into her temple, and winced at the pain. Draco pried her finger from her head, knowing she'd only hurt herself further. He could see the track marks on her right forearm. Her eyelids drooped.

Pansy, stay with me. Come on– come on–

He sensed commotion to his left. Adrian was awake, and struggling against Theo. "Don't touch me you bloody sissy! Don't–" He was always the angry one– when they used.

"Adrian, shut up." Theo flinched at the slur, but his arms held the boy down nonetheless. Pucey managed to break free from his hold, and threw a fist at the cheek that Ron Weasley hadn't punched. Draco's stomach lurched.

"Pansy, Pansy, look at me." He turned her head towards him. Like she'd done last night, for him. "I'm going to go get a potion, okay? Stay awake for me, I'll be right back."

"Don't leave, Draco. She's– She's screaming. She's–"

"She's okay. She's okay. You're okay." He echoed her own words to her. He cooed in her ear, holding her in his arms. His best friend. His bloody sister. His anchor. He hated this. He hated having to do this. Having to watch her fade and try to bring her back.

She struggled to swallow. He heard her mouth click dryly as she attempted to speak. Draco conjured a glass of water and forced her to drink it. He felt like hurling. How could she do this? Why? She had been doing so well, aside from the alcohol. She'd been recovering!

He picked her up and laid her on the leather couch. She curled into a ball. "Where the hell is Blaise?" He shouted. Astoria had been left unattended, but she seemed to be fine so far. They needed a third person.

Theo shrugged in a concerned manner, gripping Adrian's fists against his chest. "Adrian– Draco's going to get you a potion. You need to stay calm."

"I don't want a fucking potion! Let me– let me–" Adrian bellowed. The mermaids cried outside of the glass. Draco wanted to cast a sleeping charm on him, but knew it'd be too dangerous. They could be close to an overdose, but only Blaise knew the spell to detect their blood levels.

Draco ran up the stairs to his dorm. "Accio calming drought." The potion did not fly through the air. "Fuck!" He screamed. He had used the last of it last night. He rummaged through his nightstand drawers for a sobering potion. They only had two left.

He snatched up the vials and rushed back down the stairs. Pansy, I'm coming.

Draco, it's so very cold. I'm so cold.

When Draco reached the bottom of the stairs, Blaise was there with vials in hand. "Drake, I came as fast as I could. You used the last of the drought last night– I– I had to raid Snape's cupboard for these." He held up a handful of calming drought. "I couldn't find any sobering potion."

"I don't want a bloody potion, you twats! Let me go!" Adrian shouted.

Draco and Blaise rushed to the area the three drugged Slytherins were sitting. Pansy was asleep. Draco shook her. She wouldn't wake up. She was cold. He pulled the cap off his potion with his teeth and pried her lips open. He poured the potion down her throat and shut her mouth, hoping it would suffice. Praying to Salazar she wasn't–

No. He didn't even let himself think of that. He pulled her into his arms to warm her with his skin. "Pansy please!"

Blaise was talking calmly to Astoria. Theo was forcing half a sobering potion down Pucey's throat. But in this moment, it was only Draco and Pansy. Draco and his one anchor. He didn't know how to exist without her. He needed her to open her eyes and smile. To say something. To breathe.

Finally she gasped. Her eyelids shifted. "Draco?"

"Yes, Pans. I'm right here."

"Draco, why do you keep saving me?"

"Because I love you, Pansy– you know this. Pansy, you're– you're going to be okay. You have to be." Draco was sobbing now. Theo and Blaise stilled.

"After everything I've done?"

Draco's mind flashed. To his mother. To the Dark Lord. To Pansy– no. He didn't want to think of that. "Pansy, it doesn't matter."

"I can still hear her scream, Draco. I can still hear it. Her crying. Pleading."

Blaise and Theo did not know this story. They knew to an extent, but Pansy was going to air their secrets right here and now. Adrian knew of it, but hadn't witnessed it. He'd never spoken a word about it. None of them had. "Pansy, shhh. Just relax."

"Your mother– she," Pansy was sobbing too. "She–"

"Silencio!" Draco whispered, throat hoarse.

"Drake–" Theo rested his hand on the blonde's shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" He growled, holding Pansy protectively. She was sobbing silently.

Astoria puked in a bin Blaise had summoned. Adrian choked on the water Theo had conjured. They all exchanged glances, Draco could see– could feel their eyes on him. Only Pansy could help. Only Pansy could help. He brushed hair off of her sweaty face.

Only Pansy had cradled him that day. When they'd done it– when she'd done it. She let him sob into her lap, scream out in fury. Curse the Dark Lord's name in a silenced room far from the others. Only Pansy had helped. Only Pansy.

But Draco had done nothing that day. Nothing to ease her pain. But he should have held her in his arms and given her his forgiveness aloud as she had cried along with him. He'd heard her scream along with him and done nothing for her. As he held her in his arms now, he saw her concealment charm had lifted, and he stared at the black snake on her arm. The one she'd earned.

His anchor. She was broken too.

I'm so sorry, Pansy. You don't need to do this. Talk to me. I can– I can help.

Yes I do. I will do anything, Draco. Anything to drown out the pain.

...

They were late to detention, him and Theo. Draco was numb– barely heard Snape deduct fifty house points each for their tardiness. Couldn't meet the man's eyes. He didn't hold back when Weasley got violent. He was so sick of the ginger. Besides, he wanted nothing more than to break everything he touched. He had no energy to toy with Granger tonight. His mission could wait. He felt like a rock had hit him in the stomach. Theo cracked a sexual joke about Granger. They laughed weakly, too preoccupied to really mean it.

Are you okay? She'd asked the question like she cared. Like she actually thought about the possibility that he wasn't okay. Like she saw through him. He prayed she hadn't mastered legilimency yet and invaded his mind.

He just nodded.

It was unconvincing.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Brief mentions of eating disorders, addiction, and other sensitive matters.

September 15, 1996

Draco decided to put off his trip to Hogsmeade until Sunday, so he could stay with Pansy while she recovered. She had slept in his bed overnight, while Adrian was kicked to the common room. Theo and Blaise had discovered it was Adrian who had uncovered the confiscated drugs hidden in Draco's nightstand. Draco did his best not to punch the boy in the face for putting Pansy at risk. He knew Adrian was just numbing pain too. He needed protection too.

Draco fed Pansy, sung her to sleep as she cried in his arms about the screams inside her head. In the morning he bathed her– which was an awkward experience for the both of them. Especially when there was blood in the bathtub as she sat down. He panicked and raised his wand to run a diagnostic spell, but she explained that she had begun a "monthly battle" with her ovaries.

"It's early, must have been the dope." She joked softly and smiled; she found it funny. He felt sick.

"What– what spell do I use? For this?" Draco cast a spell to pull the stopper at the bottom of the tub. The water was too saturated for her to soak in it; he would have to drain it and refill it all over again. It looked like a bloody massacre– quite literally.

"There really isn't one. Except for the water." She reached for his wand. He obliged cautiously, ready to pounce if she tried anything dangerous. "Perpurgo." The new water became clear. Draco found it fascinating.

They sat in an awkward silence as Pansy leaned back into the soapy water. He chose to run a sponge over her back, too afraid a cleansing spell might disrupt something inside of her. He glanced at her quickly to make sure he was washing the right places, avoiding her breasts.

She was skin and bones.

She'd been eating, he'd made sure she was eating. Forced her to come along to breakfast, lunch and dinner since September first, no matter how hard she protested. He had always made a plate for her. She had been eating, he knew it. But her stomach was concave, always hidden under one of her thick jumpers. He told her she could only wear them from now on if he saw her first. She needed to eat.

At her request, he turned to allow her the privacy to dry off, but refused to leave her alone in a room with sharp edges and running water. He asked Daphne– who looked just as drained as he felt– to bring Pansy her ovary things. He didn't help with those, though. He would have if she needed him to. Luckily, she didn't.

Pansy slept through the day.

...

September 16, 1996

Sunday morning, Draco prepared himself to jog to Hogsmeade. He didn't want to take a carriage, it would be too crowded. He needed to be alone: no people. None. Plus, a jog would help him let off steam. That's all he had. Steam, boiling him alive. His insides were burning today, like every other day, just at a higher temperature. Someone, something, had kindled the flames. It was excruciating.

He couldn't enjoy the cold water as it streamed over his body in the shower– his chest, his back, his shoulders. He couldn't savor the chill— the momentary relief. No, he needed to feed his mates. His anchors. When Draco descended the stairs to the Slytherin common room, Theo was playing chess with Pucey while Blaise pulled Pansy's hair into little tiny braids. Adrian was grumbling about punishment, how he couldn't sleep in his own bed, in his own room. Theo told him to stop shooting up. Draco had to break up the fight.

"Any requests?" He called from across the room, standing nearly at the exit now. Several other Slytherins looked up at him as if he were demented.

"Pastries!" Pansy announced with an instantaneous burst of energy. Her face was pulled into what Draco hoped to be a genuine smile. "Pumpkin, please."

"Hold your head still, P. I'm going to rip your blood scalp off!" Blaise scowled. "Find me some porridge will you? Need to keep slim."

Theo's head shot up. "Slim? You're a bloody beast, Blaise." Pansy laughed, and Draco couldn't help but smile at the normalcy after their terrible past few nights.

"How do you think that made me feel, Thee?" Blaise raised an eyebrow.

"Like a right old sinewy bloke, Blaise." Theo remarked. "Knight to F nine."

"You're bloody kidding me!" Shouted Adrian, who seemed to be ignoring Draco entirely since the night of his potential overdose. "King to E one."

Blaise and Pansy exchanged a humorous glance. "If my hands weren't full of Pansy's hair–"

"What, you're going to strangle, yeah? With your big bloody hands?" Theo gloated.

"Why waste my energy on your neck when a quick diffundo would do the trick?"

"Careful!" Theo threw up his hands to guard his face. "With your mercurial magic, I'll bloat like a puffer here on the spot!"

"What in Merlin's name does mercur- what'd he say Pans?"

"Mercurial?" She responded.

Theo scoffed. "It means your spellwork is total rubbish, that's what it means!"

Theo and Blaise's useless banter continued until Draco decided that porridge and pastries were the only special requests. He turned on his heel and nearly collided with the chest of Graham Montague. Jet black stubble lined his jaw, making the boy seem years older than he truly was. He was unkempt, his hair left untouched by smoothing or straightening charms.

Draco wondered if the rest of the school noticed the change in the Slytherin sixth and seventh years. If they had theories about why the once pompous purebloods looked like they hadn't had a day's worth of training. Why Crabbe and Goyle never spoke, hardly bathed unless commanded to. Why Adrian Pucey's eyes were permanently outlined in dark red skin. Why Draco Malfoy no longer slicked his hair back. He wondered if the bloody Gryffindors suspected the worst. If they believed every Slytherin had gone dark, had chosen the wrong side like their own founder had. The Gryffindors would be right, unfortunately.

"Do I get a request too, Drake?" Montague chimed. "I'm in the mood for toast with apricot jam. No! Pomegranate marmalade. That's always delectable."

"Get your own bloody breakfast, Montague." Draco shook his head.

"Not so friendly today, I see." The boy mocked a frown. Then he brought his face close to Draco's ear and whispered, "Be careful, Malfoy. Father said they're watching now."

Draco's pulse multiplied. "They?" He asked drily, though he already knew the answer.

Graham didn't answer. "If you need anything. For the mission," He looked around cautiously, lowering his voice further. ""You know where I'll be."

Draco stormed out of the common room so fast he felt he might have whiplash.

....

Hermione awoke to a loud bang on her dormitory door. "'Mione, open up!" A male voice called.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes, looking around the empty room. Lavender and Parvati had dragged their sheets down the stairs to sleep in the common room. Ron had likely convinced them that Hermione was evil after their detention. Asha had gushed about Neville's invitation to join him in his bed. Hermione chuckled at the thought. At least Longbottom was happy.

Hermione realized she had actually gotten a good night's sleep without the three blabbering about some romance novel, or something Neville or Won Won did. Hermione had already heard far too much about Ron Weasley's penis than she cared to. Asha typically chose to share less obscene details, but she did learn that Neville Longbottom had developed abs over the summer break.

"Mione!" It was Ginny's voice. The first voice must have been Harry. The two were attached at the hip. "Mi—"

"I'm bloody coming, you two!" Hermione groaned sleepily. She needed to be decent before she'd let them in. Her orange knickers hardly seemed appropriate.

"I swear I will bust down this door in two minutes, Hermione!" Ginny responded humorously. Hermione laughed. She nearly fell on her face as she rushed to tug pajama bottoms over her legs before stumbling to the door.

Ginny and Harry barged in the moment she cracked the door. "Finally!" Ginny grinned. She and Harry were holding multiple large baskets and parcels. Sweets spilled out of the sides as Ginny set the contents of her arms onto Lavender's bed. Hermione blinked.

Neville and Asha fought against the door as Hermione attempted to shut it. Neville was carrying a square package, wrapped in a strange leaflike material rather than paper or parchment. He gave Hermione a small smile as Asha gave her a large hug. Hermione buried her face into Asha's dark curls, the sweet smell of coconut oil filling her nostrils. Asha always gave the best hugs.

Seamus and Dean shouted a loud greeting as they levitated a cake the size of a cauldron. It was lovely, with red and gold decorations. She imagined Theodore Nott scoffing at the Gryffindor pride as it wobbled above her bed. Dean chastised his boyfriend for losing focus. Seamus hit him playfully

The six Gryffindors all faced Ginny, who lifted her finger to conduct. Then they began to sing Happy Birthday, the muggle way.

Hermione felt numb as the realization that she was now eighteen flooded her senses. The concept barely registered in her mind until Harry shot a confetti cannon over her head. She hid her racing thoughts behind a weak smile and crossed her arms to fight the chill descending her spine.

"Your first legal drink, Granger!" Seamus attempted to pass her a goblet. She glanced at its strange purple contents as they swirled inside the golden cup. "Made it myself."

Hermione shook her head with a grimace, plugging her nose to fight the rancid smell. He shrugged and tipped his head back with a 'cheers.' He drained it in one gulp.

Harry then shoved a gift into her ill-prepared arms. She fumbled to keep it from crashing to the floor. "This one first, it's from Lupin. He insisted on being first, I don't know why."

The gift was enveloped in a muggle wrap, which donned unicorns and rainbows. She giggled lightly at the childishness of it all. Lupin had scrawled an illegible note across the top, but it appeared to have smudged on its journey to reach her. As she pulled back the paper, she heard a ticking noise. Had the werewolf sent her a bomb?

It was, in fact, a bomb. A glitter bomb, to be exact. Bright red glitter shot out in every direction, floating dangerously above her head. It swirled through the air to spell 'Happy Birthday!' until an invisible gust of wind blew it directly into Hermione's face. A clump found its way into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, to no avail.

Scourgify wouldn't help this. Glitter was inescapable, with or without the aid of magic. She'd have it in her hair for months. She felt the urge to curse Professor Lupin into oblivion.

The next gift was addressed to her from Fred and George. The thin package lifted from her hands, likely triggered by contact. It flew into the air, similar to Lupin's gift, and she braced herself for more glitter, or even fireworks, knowing their love for dangerous pranks. It began to burst from the faded parchment, destroying any wrapping still clinging to its sides. The twins' voices sounded from the gift. "Now that you're legal, we think it's finally time to give you the talk."

Hermione turned a bright crimson red as she glanced around at the people in the room. It was a howler in the form of a sexual educational book, she realized. They all burst into laughter. The gift continued. "See when two people—"

"Of any gender!" George's voice shouted from a distance.

"When two people of any gender feel a certain way," Fred continued. "They decide collectively to participate in intercourse. After foreplay of course."

She tried her best not to think of Draco Malfoy, or intercourse, or foreplay. She hid her face in her hands and lunged for the wand on her nightstand. The twins' voices continued, explaining the anatomy of a woman in rather graphic detail. She wrapped her fingers around her wand just in time before they got to the male version. "Silencio!" She shouted, flustered.

The room was booming with laughter. Hermione joined to disguise the embarrassment brewing deep inside. She watched Harry's face contort as he bent over and clutched his stomach, his cheeks turning red as he gasped for air. Harry hadn't looked that happy in a while– hadn't laughed or grinned or hit his knees like he always did when he found something particularly amusing. Neither had Ginny or Neville for that matter, not since the Department of Ministries. She wondered if it was all for show. For her. For comfort. If she was right, it was a damn good one.

Time passed in a blur. Harry had snuck bottles of firewhiskey and butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks and promised to teach her drinking games he'd learned from Dudley Dursley. Neville's strangely wrapped gift revealed what appeared to be an entire pound of muggle marijauna. She threw it at him instantly, and shouted that she wouldn't be caught dead with such a large quantity of unsanctioned drugs. He took out his wand and transfigured it as it fell to the ground. "It was only a spell, Hermione! It's a book!" He stuttered.

She stared at the block as it became a book bound in purple leather. An Expert's Guide to Elixirs was carved in gold across the cover. Neville picked it up awkwardly and crossed the room to place it in her hands once more. "So you won't blow up your next one!"

"It was the ferret, you know." Hermione said with a scowl. "Six bloody toad's eyes! But I love it, Neville. Thank you." She meant it. She really would devour the book– actually might enjoy it, though she didn't enjoy much of anything lately. Except for sex. Which she wasn't having. And wouldn't be having. Especially not with Malfoy. Or Theo. Definitely not Theo.

Seamus placed a basket full of sweets into her glittery hands. Her mouth watered at the peppermint imps and chocolate frogs: her little guilty pleasures kept hidden from her parents, as to avoid a lecture on cavities. Dean wrapped a scarf around her neck and unveiled a long white winter's coat. "Yours are horrendous, Hermione. Seriously? Beige is out of style. Have you not seen a single fashion magazine from the past decade?"

She knew that was his humor, but no, she really hadn't.

Ginny's gift was rather large and incredibly lumpy. Hermione ripped it open suspiciously, to find multiple lingerie sets inside the light colored parchment. The blush returned. They were lovely, really, though she doubted she would ever wear any of them. One set was a lacy green bra with matching knickers. She was shocked Ginny had picked the color. Tried not to wonder what Malfoy would say about the green or if he'd like it.

No. Draco Malfoy did not even cross her mind.

Molly had made her another sweater. Charlie sent her photographs of his dragons and a letter about how he recommended she celebrate the holiday. Arthur sent her a muggle trinket, accompanied by a list of questions and a request that she respond with explanations on the use of the item. Hermione recognized it as a ballpoint pen. It flashed with multicolor lights when she clicked it open. It made her chuckle.

But as she scanned the room– with the gifts scattered across her bed, and her friends standing around the dormitory– all she could think about was Ronald fucking Weasley. The only thing missing. She tried to push away the thought that all of this wasn't enough, the song and the cake and the damned glitter. But after six years, Ron Weasley was not here to celebrate her legality with her. She felt as if she'd been struck in the sternum with a thick, dull dagger. And the knife was being dragged towards her navel with every breath she took.

Ginny threw her arms around Hermione's neck. Seamus and Dean joined from behind, followed by Neville and Asha. Hermione felt as if she could suffocate in their well-meant group hug. They dispersed, allowing Harry to hug her alone. She wasn't focused as they all said goodbyes. She was too busy pushing memories of Ron out of her mind. Memories of her trio, her boys.

Memories of the nights they cried after Cedric died. Harry cried the hardest. He'd lost more than a friend, a classmate or acquaintance like Hermione and Ron had; he lost his first love to the same vile man who'd killed his parents, and no one had even believed him. She and Ron stayed awake, sharing every little detail of their childhoods until Harry's nightmares cease, though they never really ceased entirely. They silenced the common room until he stopped screaming Cedric's name— screaming obscenities at the murderer in his mind. Screaming at Barty Crouch Jr. She had helped Ron with his homework during those late nights. Taught him how to comprehend Arithmancy. Grinned with him as he later showed her the high marks he had earned by himself.

She blinked herself back into reality. Into here, into now. The present where those memories seemed to be irrelevant. Ginny was staring at her. Hermione thought she saw pity in her eyes. Ginny shouted something about leaving to allow Hermione to use the book Fred and George sent. Hermione was too dazed to blush.

As her friends began to file out of the room, she noticed Harry standing back. He shot a glance at the rest of the group, and Ginny nodded knowingly at him. Hermione held her breath.

"Mione, I know—"

She couldn't even hold the anger back. "How could he not even..." She sobbed. "What happened to us, Harry? Between now and then? What happened?"

"I don't know," he sighed and rubbed her arm. "Maybe he's just dealing with this a little different."

She sucked in a breath. "We're all dealing with this, Harry! He acts like we didn't all watch it happen! Like we didn't all see that horrid creature—"

"His name is Tom, Hermione. Tom Riddle." Harry practically growled. She flinched at his tone. It was deeper, echoed around the room like he'd cast an amplification charm. It sent a chill up her spine.

"That was not a human, Harry. He does not deserve a name." She shook her head. "And Bellatrix Lestrange– Sirius."

His lips curled, then relaxed. "Bellatrix will die a slow and painful death for that, Hermione." He rolled his neck against his shoulders. "When they catch her, I mean. She will rot in Azkaban–" His voice was back to normal but his expression remained dark— conflicted.

"She wasn't caught. She wasn't detained." Hermione stared.

"She will be." Harry's green eyes were dark now. He seemed to be fighting something deep inside. Hermione hadn't noticed. Hadn't seen the change since June. Hadn't even been this physically close to him in so long. But it was there. Something was there. She wondered if he was fighting the same rage consuming Ron. She wondered if it was contagious.

Harry? It was a shout into the void, a shot in the dark which she doubted would work. She so badly wanted to project her thoughts into his mind, the same way she had with Malfoy. But he didn't move, didn't respond, didn't hear. There was no connection. How was there no connection?

"Harry, you've changed." She said. "Are you–"

"I'm fine, Mione. Like you said, we're all coping." His eyes softened once more, but it was now riddled with vexation.

"I just wish we could cope together, like we used to." She shook her head.

"I don't know what to say, Hermione. Please, just forget about Tom, Bellatrix, and Ron today. Try, for yourself. It's your birthday," he gave a small smile. She tried to give one in return, but could only let out another cry.

"What will happen, Harry?" Fear rose within her at the knowledge that Lord Voldemort had returned, and he was gaining strength and numbers. "To- to all of us?"

"Come here," he pulled her into an embrace. She slumped into his chest. He smelled of firewhiskey at seven in the morning, with a hint of Neville's weed. "It's okay. We're okay, Hermione."

"I think- I think I just need to be alone for a minute." She whispered up to him, her voice muffled against his Sublime tee. He loved that band. She loved that he loved something.

"Whatever you need." He nodded against her shoulder. Then he stepped back and walked away. And she was alone. Like she'd asked. But the air outside of his arms felt colder than she'd expected and she missed the warmth.

Come back! She screamed into his mind. She swore he paused, for just a sliver of a second, but then he continued. He closed the door, and he left.

"Confringo!" Hermione blew a hole into the door he'd just closed. But that wasn't enough. "Reducto!" Her pillow was engulfed in a bright blue light before the curse turned it to feathers.

It wasn't enough. Her eyes found the book that Fred and George sent. They had drawn a detailed penis across its green cover. "Incendio!" She aimed her wand directly at the illustrated testicles. She fumed as it erupted into flames. But a pang of guilt hit her heart and she put it out with a soft augamenti. She fixed the hole in the door before sitting on her bed to cry amongst the wrapping paper and candies.

Eighteen years on this earth, and she still felt like a scared little child thrown into a world far beyond her level of comprehension. Six years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Hermione still felt like a muggle standing just beyond the castle walls, gazing hopelessly through its large windows. She had always been nothing more than an outsider looking in as a muggle, and now she stood as a witch feeling, once again, severely out of place.

The life ahead of her had always seemed out of reach, always so far away. The future was some distant possibility that she could think about another day– another year. But she was now an adult and this was 'the future.' She was a legal witch with the power to apparate, to raise her wand in the presence of her parents and finally show them all she'd learned over the years. She should have felt excitement, but all she felt was dread at the thought of a future in a world where evil ran so freely through the streets. And for the first time in her life, she wished she had never gotten that damned letter.

She wished she could go back and exist in a time where she had no magic. No school of witchcraft and wizardry. No Voldemort or Ron Weasley or Draco Malfoy or Delores Umbridge or Albus Dumbledore. Just a dull, simple life where she was entirely normal. She would even give up Harry Potter if it meant she'd never have to squirm out of Bellatrix Lestrange's grasp as she watched Sirius Black fall into the veil. Or see the dead body of her best friend's lover, a boy who had been nothing but nice to all he'd met. Or see a dead body in general. Or fight a fucking troll. Or lay in the infirmary incapable of moving because of a big fucking snake. In the muggle world, you could step on snakes. Cook them. Eat them, even. In the wizarding world, you were the one being eaten.

This beautiful power and this beautiful world came with so much pain. So much trauma that she had never asked for. Chambers of Secrets and three-headed dogs and werewolves and Triwizard Tournaments. And now one of the only good things she'd found— her friendship with Harry and Ron— was hanging by a fucking thread. And she was livid.

The clock read a quarter to eight when her stomach finally growled. Food. She'd forgotten about food.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There is mention of death, violence, murder and gore in this chapter. Read at your own risk. This is not smut!!

September 16, 1996

Draco was walking to the kitchens when he heard the news. He witnessed a Hufflepuff girl crying on a bench in one of the corridors. She looked to be a second year– dark hair, short, rather stumpy. He scoffed at the public display of emotion. But there was a paper in her hands. Three Ravenclaws reached out to comfort her.

Further down the hall, one of the Patil twins and her Gryffindor friend were whispering. They glared when he slowed to hear their conversation and he gladly returned the nasty look. He continued down the corridor until he found a lone Slytherin first year, who waved to him nervously. The boy had stark white hair and a pale complexion. He reminded Draco of himself, if he had been a starstruck fanboy scared of anyone who even glanced his way.

"Your Prophet." Draco sneered. "Give it to me."

The boy barely had time to move before Draco snatched the paper from his hands. He scanned the Daily Prophet hungrily. He wondered what could be so detrimental to have the entire student body in a fit. He didn't register the words at first, it looked like gibberish. But the headline flickered across the page, accompanied by a photograph of a bawling shop owner and his heart dropped.

There was a raid on Hogsmeade. Honeydukes was fucking destroyed, and Hogwarts was on lockdown. No one could come in or out of the castle. There was a statement from Dumbledore in the middle of the article.

"We will not allow fear to consume us. There is darkness in this world, but at Hogwarts we choose to focus on the light. The wards are strong enough to fend off Lord Voldemort himself. A few rogue Death Eaters are not a concern. There will be no evacuation."

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes again. His mother had asked for one thing, one God damned thing, and now he couldn't even give that to her. Couldn't provide her one speck of comfort as he left her to suffer in that damned manor.

Get the food and make it back to Pansy. You'll be fine. Pastries, porridge. Maybe some toast, but not for Montague. He told himself. Pucey likes blueberry jam with butter.

...

Hermione didn't bother changing out of her sleepwear before breakfast. It was Sunday, after all; she wasn't required to stay in uniform. And it was her birthday. She could dress however she bloody wished. She practically stomped past Lavender and her band of bimbos, avoiding glares and snickers, likely about the glitter all over her.

She followed the same route, and the same secret corridors she always took to the Great Hall like a zombie, she didn't notice the whispers in the hallways. Or the frowns of her peers. Didn't notice that they weren't about her. Didn't notice anything, really, until she ran into something solid. Something that couldn't have been a wall, because she knew this route by heart. She couldn't have taken a wrong turn.

She looked up. It was Malfoy.

...

Hermione Granger was the last person he wanted to see. Hermione Granger in a haphazardly buttoned plaid shirt, fuzzy slippers and little cotton shorts that barely covered her arse wasn't much better. But still, slightly. He'd already seen her body, but he hadn't been prepared to see it again.

"Salazar, you look like a painted lady," Draco breathed. Her face and hair were speckled with glitter, like tiny, red, sparkling freckles. She looked ridiculous, really. "Have a rager last night in the Gryffindor commons?"

"You look like a muggle." Hermione eyed him up and down. He was wearing sweatpants and a flannel. Just like hers, only green. How predictable. She suddenly became very aware that she was standing in front of Draco Malfoy in what her mother would call 'buttocks shorts,' and she wasn't wearing a bra. He'd seen her body, unfortunately, but she wasn't prepared for him to see it again.

Draco flinched. He knew he shouldn't have worn Theo's bloody pants. His jog would have been less embarrassing in trousers and a blazer, he could at least have some class as he travelled like a muggle. But the muggle pants were damn comfortable. Sometimes the barbarians had good ideas, as much as he hated to admit it. That was all a moot point now, though; there would be no jog. There was no longer a Honeydukes to run to.

"Not my clothes, Granger." He retorted, shifting his weight to another foot.

Hermione noticed he was cold again. Unfriendly. He lacked the humorous tone, the flirting gaze. She rolled her eyes and wondered if he had chosen to forget about their little... mistake. She wished she could. But looking at him brought memories to her mind. Intrusive ones.

He felt her eyes on him as he inspected her knotted hair. Draco got the sudden urge to reach out and brush a large clump of red glitter out of her curls, but he shouldn't touch her any more than he needed to. Shouldn't touch her. That wasn't his mission– not for now at least. Right now he needed to get back to his anchors before he began to cry about his mother. He kicked himself for being such a weak little twat.

"Unless you have peppermint imps or chocolate frogs," Draco began to walk away. "I implore you to move out of my way."

Hermione gasped. How had he known? "Get out of my mind, Malfoy!" She hissed.

"I'm not in your mind." Draco called. "Does your head hurt, mudblood?" He caught himself. "Sorry, old habits." He had to force the apology. She'd never let him in if he kept calling her a name she hated so badly.

Hermione wasn't phased. She didn't believe that he meant the apology but accepted the fact that he'd known to force one out. It was progress. "How did you know then?"

Draco wanted to leave her there. He didn't have time for her questions. She was always asking bloody questions. She never shut up. But he played the part, praying she would leave him alone soon. "Know what?"

She was still suspicious. She didn't believe the faux genuinity on his face for one second. He had been in her thoughts, she just knew it. "That I had peppermint imps and chocolate frogs, Malfoy. That's not something you just randomly conjure out of your arse."

He stopped himself midstep. He didn't believe his ears. She had the exact candy he needed. If only he could sneak to wherever she was hiding it and steal her stash. At least until he could get to Diagon Alley, and find some other candy store. He rarely visited the stores in the Diagon part of the area– always Knockturn. They didn't have candy there.

Draco softened his face for her. Tried to look around to check if anyone was watching, but the hallway was empty. They'd both been taking a shortcut to the kitchens– the same shortcut. Then he stepped closer, with reassurance they were alone. He didn't want to be seen with her. Didn't want the rumors. "What's a wizard got to do for a few of each, Granger?"

Hermione crossed her arms and stepped back. He wanted something, she knew it. This was an act. A bloody act. She didn't let her heart flutter at his newfound husky voice, she knew it was put on. Or the stray hairs sticking up on his head. He looked significantly better really, compared to his usual attire. Unkempt yet still groomed. She wondered whose clothes he was wearing and why.

"Nothing. You're not getting any of my sweets, Malfoy. Now excuse me." She pushed past him.

He caught her arm and held it tight. "I'm serious." His voice became severe. He tried not to show his desperation to secure even a single piece of what she had. It was a high commodity. She just didn't know. "Money? Do you have galleons?"

Hermione was shocked at the implication that she lacked any wizarding currency. Maybe he really was dense. "Yes, Malfoy, I do. How do you suppose I buy my textbooks?"

"Through one of your boyfriends? But, please." Malfoy said absentmindedly. He realized he was begging with a filthy muggle born. He convinced himself it would be charity work, to pay her for the imps and frogs. He'd do anything for his mother. "I'll pay—"

"Why are you so desperate for sweets?" Hermione began to laugh. Draco flinched, clenching his fists. "Have you taken up stress eating?"

"Haven't you heard?" He exhaled. "Honeydukes was destroyed."

Hermione's heart dropped for two separate reasons. The first was that the destruction was undoubtedly due to a Death Eater attack, which meant they were closer than ever to Hogwarts. The shop had been Harry's favorite place to sneak to when he needed something to boost his spirits. The second reason, however, was that Draco Malfoy's voice now sounded like more of a cry than a snarl or sneer. She stared at his expression. It was desperate. Something was wrong. She felt it.

Malfoy? She spoke gently into his mind, unsure why his sudden dishevelment concerned her so much.

He jumped. "Granger, please stop doing that."

But she didn't. Are you really okay? Really? She searched him for a hint of snark, a hint of arrogance, but found only the bags underneath his eyes and the white stubble across his chin. He nodded, like he had in the kitchens, but it was still unconvincing, still meaningless, even more so than before. She could feel something foreign in her chest as he shifted his gaze to the ground, unmoving apart from a slight tilt of his head.

Draco felt her. Felt her do something, but he couldn't tell what. Felt her inside, but not in his mind. In his body. He felt whatever it was in his chest, in his gut, like dread, except it wasn't his. It was foreign and raw, and he felt the urge to sob. Sob at something he couldn't control, something he wished he could. Something that brought him pain. But it wouldn't be his own cries. It would be hers. The feelings were hers. He snapped his head to face Granger. What have you done?

Hermione knew her eyes were wide as he looked at her. She didn't respond. They stood in silence, still as statues, eye contact never breaking. There were feelings coursing through her body that were not her own and as hard as she tried to expel them, they only grew stronger.

Touch. It was his touch to blame. His hand still firmly held her arm in place. A silver ring molded in the shape of a snake resided on his finger. It radiated something warm, something strong, like deep magic she felt only when she held her wand for the first time in Diagon Alley. But she knew it couldn't have been the ring. It had been missing the day he'd driven his fingers into her. It was his touch in general. Had he tethered them that night? Had their kiss initiated this impossible mental connection?

Then her hand was on his, and she was nearly blown backwards by the jolt it sent through her body. Draco wanted to pull away. Her hand on his made his skin crawl in a way it never had before. But it wasn't disgust. He couldn't bring himself to be disgusted. He simply wasn't. His mind was blank except for the sight of her, the feeling of her touch. He felt a pulse where her hand rested upon his, a pulse which echoed through his body like the tempo of a waltz turned to full volume. He was stunned.

Hermione felt the pulse, felt the tension in her chest. She felt as if she could cry, cry at something she wished she could fix. Her shoulders ached with a weight she could not identify. Stress, perhaps? Or a secret. It was his. She felt dread– felt powerless. Felt hopeless and hurt. Then she felt like she was spinning, but that feeling was hers.

Hermione gasped as she entered his mind. She'd never practiced legilimency before, but she knew this was it. She nearly fell from dizziness. Except she was no longer standing in the corridor, she was somewhere else. It was his brain. His mind was like a cave. Noises– no, voices– echoed off rough stone walls she could not see, and water rushed below her feet, soaking her slippers. It was loud and dark and damp. As she stood in the darkness, the air around her felt like a blistering summer afternoon after a storm. A bead of sweat formed on her brow.

Hermione roamed through the cave with no idea where she was going. She got lost, turned around, with no idea how to escape. She hit walls she couldn't identify and found passageways that led to nowhere. She wondered if this was his occlumency, if his mind was void of entrances or exits. She wasn't looking for anything. She wasn't seeking memories, but she found them nonetheless. They found her. There was a light at the end of one tunnel, so dim she hardly even noticed it was there, and she knew he was letting her in. Into this room, this separate part of his mind– this memory. She wondered if he knew she was even there at all.

The tunnel opened up into a ballroom, becoming so bright she had to shield her eyes from the contrast between it and the darkness. Music was playing softly from somewhere outside, somewhere she couldn't see. Hermione looked around in awe at the room with its marble walls and matching floors. The ceiling was trimmed with gold, adorned with a crystal chandelier. Black and gold, the perfect symbol of wealth.

The music inside of Malfoy's mind entranced Hermione, she felt like twirling across the marble and swaying to its rhythm. She followed the sound to find large black french doors, which she threw open with ease. She found herself inside of what appeared to be a library, with shelves made of stone and books bound in gold and fine leather. The walls were marble like the ballroom, but a warmer white instead of black. Like rose quartz. The ceiling was textured like the geodes her father had collected since she was a little girl, and the chandelier hanging above her head emitted a beautiful white light she couldn't stare at for too long without little black dots invading her vision.

She searched through the shelves, calmed by the sounds echoing around the room. The source of the music, she found, was Draco Malfoy. Young Draco, not the one she knew now. He had to be eight or nine, face void of a sneer or smirk. Beside him sat Narcissa Malfoy, her black and blonde streaked hair tied up in a loose bun. They sat together at a beautiful white grand piano, fingers moving nearly in sync, playing a ballad Hermione didn't recognize. She could hear Narcissa speak, but couldn't make out the words. The voice was soft. Sweet.

She stood against a wall, scared to be seen. Scared to be kicked out. Scared to lose the peaceful feeling washing over her at the sight of a happy family. A happy memory where Malfoy didn't scowl or shout obscenities, but instead played piano with grace. She wondered if this was a memory at the forefront of his mind, or a distant thought he hadn't considered shielding.

Then she saw it. On the hood of the instrument lay a box of chocolate frogs and a single peppermint imp. The room smelled like mint and flowers. Narcissa had the tiniest bit of chocolate on the side of her mouth, and Hermione could feel in her heart that the sweets were the woman's favorite. That's why Draco had been so desperate. It was for her. HIs mother.

Hermione was close now, close to the little blond boy and his mother, who paid her no mind. Close enough to hear their chuckles as Draco played a wrong note. "That was an E flat, Draco." Narcissa stopped to form her hand into a different shape, playing the correct tune before waving for Draco to imitate it.

Hermione felt at ease in the peace. Felt the little boy's excitement, his joy. She never thought Draco Malfoy to be capable of love, but all she felt was that very thing. He knew what it was like to love and be loved. He was human, once. She wondered what had gone so horribly wrong that he learned to hate everything he saw. To ridicule people for things out of their control. This Draco was warm. The Draco she knew was ice cold.

Then a voice beckoned her, pulled her. Hermione, it whispered. Come. Neither Narcissa nor Draco's mouth had moved. Hermione. It called again. She knew it didn't belong to Draco. It was something similar, but it lacked a discernable gender or emotion. It was husky, soft and sweet, almost. Hermione obliged with its commands. Her feet moved on their own towards the voice. It took her between the maze of shelves until she stumbled upon a door in the floor. It creaked under her feet, otherwise she would have had no knowledge of its existence under a large, beautiful rug on the floor. She pulled back the rug, filled with curiosity, and found a lock on the door, which could only be opened with a numeric combination. She groaned; she had no wand inside his mind– no magic. She was locked out of a door she didn't know why she needed to open. But she needed to open it. She just needed to.

The numbers on the lock were set to zero, and she wondered how long it would take for her to figure out the proper combination, and before he would inevitably kick her out. She wondered how much time had passed since she'd entered his mind and whether people had begun to pass them.

Hermione didn't know that Draco Malfoy was too busy roaming her mind to push her out of his. He didn't mean to invade her thoughts again, but the second their eyes locked, he felt himself burst through the doors of a library, and knew it must be hers. Only Hermione Granger would have a library inside of her mind. There were no pages in front of him like before, just rows upon rows of bookshelves rising high above his head. He had no goal; this wasn't a part of his mission. He looked for nothing and tried to stand as still as possible before she could yell at him for being there. But his feet were moving of their own accord through the shelves, fingers running along the spines of the color coded books. It was quiet and comfortable and cold, the way he liked his own room to be. He felt himself relax again, shoulders free for a moment of the weight of the world.

Draco got lost between the shelves, so lost he couldn't find his way back to the doors. But somehow he felt at ease, he didn't want to leave. The silence was comfortable, only interrupted by the padding of his feet against the wooden floors. The books were packed so tightly on the shelves he wondered how the wood had not begun to sag. She had so many books, organized by year and time and date. He scoffed at how organized her thoughts were, and wondered if she could feel him inside her mind. He wondered if she knew enough occlumency to push him out, or if she'd simply walk out of distance once she noticed.

A book fell from a shelf in front of Draco, opening itself to a page directly in the middle. He stepped closer, and was dragged into a memory against his will. It was so bright compared to the little library that he had to shield his eyes to keep from being blinded. When he opened them again, he found himself on the Hogwarts Express sitting next to a baby-faced Harry Potter and a sickly looking Ronald Weasley. Draco wanted to laugh. She had led him right where he needed to be.

"You're really going to eat all of that?" Draco's head snapped to find a grimacing Granger, who was sitting on the padded train seat with her legs crossed like a child. Well, he realized, she was a child. Here, in this memory. In this book. There were piles of sweets on the pull-out table. Draco's inner child felt a pang of jealousy. You can't eat in someone's memories.

"Why wouldn't I?" Weaselbee responded with a mouth full of candy. "Try one, you'll like it."

Granger cautiously picked, out of all things, a single peppermint imp. And Draco's heart stung. She bit into it like his mother would, careful not to let anything seep onto her lips. Then her eyes widened and a grin stretched itself over her chubby face. A crooked, messy grin. But Draco, unfortunately, felt nothing but joy at her plain face. He was feeling what she had felt.

A chocolate frog jumped around the compartment and landed on Potter's messy head of hair. The three laughed. Draco bit back laughter of his own. It's not funny, he told himself. That's just her, her laughter. Why was he feeling like this? He suddenly wanted out, the knowledge that she was tainting his thoughts, controlling his feelings making him feel utterly trapped. The walls were going to close in soon.

The train slowed to a halt. They had arrived at Hogwarts. Good, maybe he could get out of this damned memory. Get out of the mudblood's head.

The sky grew dark outside the window as he watched Potter, Weasley and Granger leave the compartment, but he couldn't follow. His feet wouldn't let him. Instead, he was moved in the opposite direction, towards the back of the train where he so often sat with the other Slytherins. Where he had met Pansy and Theo and Blaise. Somewhere in the train a fire crackled. He suspected he was being led to another memory with a fireplace or bonfire. The crackling grew louder, and louder. He ran towards the sound like a child through a field. The fire beckoned him. Called out to him. Whispered his name. It wasn't her voice, but it was close. It was ambiguous, husky and soft. Draco, it called. Draco. Come.

It led him to a door, blocking his view from the exact compartment he had predicted. It was locked. He jangled the lock, damning the limitations of legilimency. If only he had a wand, or enough knowledge of Granger's life to figure out the combination.

Hermione's mind raced at the sight of the padlock. She considered using a book to break it, but the books were bound to the shelves, unmovable. She couldn't find a reason for the panic that rose inside of her, the frustration at the improbability that she might figure out a four-digit code to enter this mysterious room, but it did.

Draco considered any possibility of a four digit code. He tried 0901, September 1, the day of the memory, but the door wouldn't open. What about the year? He turned the numbers until they read 1991.

He's ten. He's ten in this memory. Hermione thought. Ten. Her fingers fumbled with the lock, quickly turning the numbers until they read 1990. It was wrong. When was his birthday? She pushed the final number to 1. 1991.

The doors blew open. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy found themselves staring at each other across a room made entirely of concrete, smooth and gre. It was a perfect box. Hermione took a step forward. Draco mirrored, uncertain. He'd never been in a room like this. Not with her. This wasn't a memory.

As Draco approached the fire which had called him, in the far corner of the room, his breath hitched. It wasn't a bonfire. Not a fireplace, either. Hermione turned her head away from the bright flames, casting shadows across the room, but she knew exactly what she'd seen.

It was a wooden pike.

On the pike hung Bellatrix Lestrange. And she was screaming. Not the hysterical shrieks Draco knew so well, not the wailing she'd let out when Voldemort disapproved of something she'd done. Screaming. An agonizing, painful howl.

The satisfaction Hermione felt was both hers and his. It was pure and bitter and undeniable. It flowed through her body like the blood in her veins, and for a brief moment, it felt like euphoria. Draco Malfoy cracked a smile. A genuine smile. The joy he felt was overpowering, it consumed his every thought. Whether that joy, that euphoria, was his or hers, neither would know. But nonetheless, Hermione watched the flesh of that wretched woman become leathery and charred. Imagined the cruciatus curse coursing through her bones. Draco focused on the ugly mess of hair falling from her head as ash. The stretch of skin covering her trachea that was slowly peeling away.

Draco and Hermione locked eyes inside of their strange little box. They possessed every ability to leave, to simply push open their designated doors and return to the corridor where they still stood, frozen in time in the real world. But instead they sat– making a silent decision– not too close but not too far. A comfortable coexistence. Peppermint imps and chocolate frogs appeared at their feet. Hermione held one, considering whether it was safe to eat within the confinement of legilimency.

Draco knew her thoughts because they were his, and his were hers. "Try it," He said.

It wasn't forced civility– wasn't kindness drawn from the witch's personal emotions controlling his own. It wasn't kindness at all really. It was something halfway between warm and cold, like and dislike, hate and acceptance. It was tolerance.

He opened the box in his hands and took a large bite from the head of a chocolate frog to show her it was safe to do so. The taste was altered by the smoke which filled the room. But somehow, that enhanced it, like seasoning on a fine cut of meat. "For my mother," He raised the sweet in the air like a goblet. "And Pansy too, you absolute wench."

"For Sirius. And Harry." Hermione raised her own. She knew not the story behind Draco's words, but she felt the severity of them. "May she burn in hell."

Malfoy watched as the mudblood he was meant to hurt bit into a peppermint imp inside this incorporeal concrete box that existed within his–or her– or their– mind. Minds. Unfamiliar pictures flashed through his brain like he was skimming a book he'd never read. Her book, wherein she killed every Death Eater whose face she knew without a single miscast curse. Hermione watched visions of Draco skinning Voldemort alive and hanging his flesh from the chandelier. She knew it was his imagination, his thoughts intruding upon hers. It was violent, it was cruel. And yet she wasn't disgusted or disturbed. It made her smirk, even. The creature deserved it.

Between them existed a mutual, unspoken understanding which they accepted as fact rather than opinion. Bellatrix Lestrange deserved to die. Lord Voldemort deserved to die. They knew not that it was their hatred which connected them. Their hatred, and their capacity to love bound them spectrally. Their willingness to do anything for those they loved. Draco's mission and Hermione's curiosity were one and the same. For each, the other was to be collateral in a battle to serve personal agendas. Draco Malfoy was a distraction and Hermione Granger was meant to be distracted. They were nothing more than tools to fix something that had long been broken. There was an arcane power in their coexistence– an amplification– a connection. It could be felt, it could be seen; it was undeniable.

"This changes nothing, you know." Draco quipped halfheartedly, still staring at the sizzling corpse of his aunt. The flames had died down now that there was little flesh or fat left on the woman's body to fuel them. He reached for another peppermint imp.

"I wouldn't expect it to." Hermione responded, her gaze never leaving the burning body of the woman who had crucio'd her, who had murdered Harry's godfather.

"Happy birthday, Granger."

She didn't bother asking how he knew. Her thoughts were his, and his were hers, after all. In the box, their own little box, they were indivisible. Indissoluble. Two parts of an inconceivable whole. The feeling of being one with Draco Malfoy was indescribably intrusive. But it was a welcomed intrusion.


	8. VIII

The day in their concrete box, Hermione and Draco had a silent agreement. A tolerance, a coexistence. But not a friendship. This changes nothing, Draco had said. And he meant it. Tried to mean it. He felt nothing short of shell shock from the experience. From the burning body, from the unintentional journey through Granger's mind, from the damned connection he never wanted. Had she been in his mind as he had roamed through hers? He couldn't look at her without extreme paranoia. What had she seen? Where had she been? Did she know? Was she even there?

Was she real?

The days passed without pause, night bleeding into day like spilt ink between sheets of parchment. Pansy seemed to improve, at least enough to return to classes without raising suspicion. Draco couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't ready, that deep down she was still a single inconvenience away from shooting up again, but she resisted any help after Sunday night. It was out of his hands. She returned to her room with Daphne and Millicent and Tracey, and Draco felt numb at the loss of her by his side— couldn't catch a wink of sleep. He wished he could recruit her to help him figure out whatever the hell was happening to him but Pansy didn't need that added stress. This wasn't her problem to fix. It was his.

Monday after the incident with the mudblood was the worst. Draco couldn't focus on Transfiguration, or Charms, or Potions or even Arithmancy, which had always come relatively easy to him. He would find himself subconsciously staring blankly into corners and out of windows, and when he'd snap back to reality, his body would be turned towards Granger. No matter where he sat in relation to her, he'd end up rotated in whichever direction she was. She never even looked at him. It was as if he wasn't there.

He also lacked the capacity to think coherently. His thoughts were simply not there. A phrase or word would get jumbled up and eventually vanish entirely inside a swirling whirlpool of chaotic nothingness. He considered the benefits of a venture to the infirmary, in case he had been the victim of a brain mushing jinx. Maybe Granger had figured out he was in her head and decided to punish him for it. But the mediwitch would have to run a diagnostic on his head, and he was too afraid of what she might uncover while inside.

Tuesday left him in the same predicament, but the thoughts were there. Sort of. The more he roamed the contents of his own mind, he could feel them. The words on the pages of his textbooks were legible, but blurry. Letters were out of place. After he had answered two of McGonagall's questions incorrectly, Theo decided to rag on him. "Our Golden Girl got your tongue tied?"

Draco's eyes refocused at the sound of his mate's voice. He was turned towards Granger again. He muttered obscenities under his breath and rotated back to face the blackboard. If only he could remember how to cast a body binding jinx, maybe then he'd fucking sit still.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Theo quipped and punched Draco lightly on the arm. Draco couldn't figure out how to respond, so he simply didn't.

By Thursday Draco's confusion turned into rage. The mudblood had fucked up something inside him; didn't need a brain to know this was her fault. And she wouldn't fucking look at him. He barely remembered why they'd ended up in that box— that stupid fucking box. But she did this. And she was going to fix it, with her stolen fucking magic and her insufferable need to know everything.

...

September 20, 1996

Hermione rejoiced as her fingertips finally found the smooth leather spine of A Comprehensive Concordance of Complex Conceptions. After nearly an hour of using a seeking spell to scour the library for anything related to Legilimenic communication, she had determined nothing in the standard student sections would provide her with the information she needed. Many texts mentioned legilimency, but nearly all of them served as an encyclopedia, defining the concept without providing very much detail. Many, however, made mention of a text entitled Mental Magicks, which simply did not appear to exist. Madam Prince— an unpleasant witch who acted as if Hermione's mere presence was an inconvenience— told Hermione that the book she needed would be in the restricted section. It took a phony excuse and a great deal of insincere flattery to obtain her permission to enter the section.

Mental Magic was a rather thin book, and though it did thoroughly detail the intricacies of Legilimency, there was only one mention of Legilimenic communication, and of course, it led her on another wild goose chase for A Comprehensive Concordance of Complex Conceptions. But finally, Hermione found the book. She settled herself into a quiet nook, skimmed the table of contents for the chapter she needed, and began to read.

Legilimenic communication requires a direct and unbreakable connection between the Legilimens, who serves as the projector, and his or her directed receiver. It is as much the projectors responsibility to ensure the mental line is secure as it is the receiver's. A break in the connection can be detrimental to both persons involved.

The information was surprisingly similar to what she had gathered from both Malfoy and Theo. She paused only to resituate herself, and continued:

A Legilimens may feel inspired to attempt to project into the minds of an unprepared receiver with no prior attempts to establish a line. Intentional improper communication is considered a highly actionable offense in most countries, especially in the event that the interaction results in any serious physical, emotional, or mental injuries to the receiver. Any witch or wizard interested in the art of projection should be warned: the consequences of even the simplest of mistakes are severe. Involuntary communication may induce nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells and aching of the area surrounding the brain, centered most acutely in the temporalis and occipitofrontalis muscles. Direct eye contact between a resistant receiver and their projector during the act may result in a gradual deterioration of the receiver's lateral and superior rectus, creating a weakened palpebra– an affliction which is commonly referred to as Loose Lid syndrome.

Hermione grimaced. Still, she noted that Malfoy had not lied, which only made her question further exactly how she had become a "willing receiver" without any prior knowledge, or any effort on Malfoy's part to "establish a line." She skipped the rather gory diagrams and lists of additional side effects, having just eaten lunch; Madam Prince would surely call for her expulsion if she heaved all over the concordance's crisp pages.

"Come on," she groaned, thumbing through an absurd number of pages dedicated to potential bodily harm. "Aha, connections!"

Due to the dangerous nature of Legilimenic communication, it is considered exceptionally advanced magic, and is rarely taught in any educational establishment. The skill is often, if not always, passed down through generations. Connections are rare, and are typically triggered rather than built. The most common sources of a Legilimenic line are familial love and trauma. Rarer, but still legitimate connections can be formed through mutual necessity, though these lines are far more intricate and difficult to navigate, and usually break when the necessary task is complete. In the final and most rare connection, the projector and receiver are considered bound, rather than connected. Though little is known about this anomaly, it is believed that these lines are established by Fate herself.

Hermione couldn't help but read the last line aloud, something stirring inside as her eyes fell upon the words. "Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff were rumored to possess a Spectral Link."

Spectral link?

Fate?

The box.

Malfoy.

She had done her best to avoid the blond after Sunday morning's awkward encounter. Pretending to forget the experience was beyond difficult, especially when every time she turned around, he was looking straight at her. She prayed he would stay out of her mind, prayed he had never entered in the first place. Untrained in occlumency, her best defensive strategy was to avoid any eye contact. She wasn't truly certain whether the box had been real– whether the Draco she saw was a delusion caused by excessive inhalation of Lupin's glitter. But Malfoy stared so intently at her that there was no denying something had happened. She just wished she could figure out what 'something' was.

The book never mentioned concrete boxes or burning bodies or shared emotions triggered by touch or how an untrained Legilimens could master Legilimency in a day. It was actually quite unhelpful, aside from supporting Malfoy's claims that forceful entrances into her mind would cause her pain, as well as discouraging her from ever attempting to "project"— as the book had called it— into Harry's mind again. Instead, she now had more questions than answers.

The grand bell chimed, alerting her that her free period had ended, and that she now had merely ten minutes to run all the way to Professor Sprout's greenhouse, located at the exact opposite end of the infuriatingly large castle. She would undoubtedly be late to Herbology.

Hermione rushed to Madam Prince's desk, and nearly jinxed the woman for the snail's pace at which she processed Hermione's request to check out the Comprehensive Concordance of Complex Conceptions. After around a dozen warnings along the lines of "if you spill so much as a drop of water upon this book, I will not hesitate to assign you detentions for the rest of the school year!" Hermione sprung through the library doors into the outside corridor, racing past the other students milling about in the hall.

As she turned another corner she, of course, ran right into the chest of the one and only Theodore Nott. She added another tally mark to the list of times her clumsiness had led her to a head on collision with a Slytherin boy.

"Do I need to be concerned about a fire inside the library?" He smirked as Hermione pushed herself away from him.

"What?" She panted, registering not a single word he had said. "Oh, no! I really must be going now, I've a class in five minutes and I mustn't be late." Her accent, which she habitually softened since primary school, grew thick.

"I'm sure a couple minutes won't kill you." He spoke smoothly, as he always did. Hermione tried not to swoon. She really didn't have time for this, unfortunately.

"Actually Sprout is demonstrating the proper maintenance for–" Hermione ran out of breath.

He laughed. She pressed her lips closely together and blushed, though in her defense, most of it was from the running. "I'm serious, Theo, I need to go. Bye."

"Let me walk you."

"Don't you have class?"

"I'd much rather walk the Golden Girl to the greenhouses than sit in on an insipid lecture about muggle bicycles."

"You should really go to class, Nott." She shook her head, turning to walk away. "Professor Burbage is unfond of tardiness." She called over her shoulder.

Theo appeared beside her, matching her pace. "I am quite 'unfond' of Burbage." He mimicked her voice. "You know that's not a word, yeah?"

Hermione blinked. "It is!"

"It isn't."

Hermione hmphed and sped up. Theo did the same. "Trying to outrun me, Granger? You'll be severely disappointed."

She took this as a challenge and walked even faster, verging on a jog. Theo remained right beside her nonetheless. He didn't even seem out of breath. Hermione, whose legs now felt like jelly, reminded herself to take up running, whenever Dumbledore decided it was safe to lift the castle lockdown.

"You're surprisingly nimble for a book owl."

Hermione whipped her head towards him, careful not to trip. "What– is– that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all. Just wondering if you can keep up."

Then with a wink, Theo began to sprint. The pureblood wanted a bloody race.

Hermione had a horrible history with running. In her muggle school's physical education classes, she could never meet the 11 minute time requirement for a mile run. This was often due to the other girls in her class tripping her, pushing her and doing anything they could to make her fall. Candace Cornell would of course earn the fastest time, and Hermione would be the last to finish. Her knees were never left unscathed from those runs– she had the scars to show for it. Hermione rarely felt the same level of giddiness she had the day she found out she'd never have to share the air of a classroom with Candance and her snickering little cronies again. Every summer she still fought urges to hex that red headed bitch.

Hermione considered stopping, tricking Theo into running far enough away for her to take a different route. But there was a challenge presented to her, and she never backed down from challenges. Plus, she might just arrive at Sprout's greenhouse before the witch could begin her lecture on the maintenance of dittany.

The grand bell rang; she was already late.

That was enough reason for Hermione to push her weight off her back foot. She willed her legs to move as fast as they could go. Theo remained in the lead, just fast enough that right before she could catch up he'd advance again. She wondered if this was a walk in the park for him, being nearly 30cm taller and having much longer legs. She panted. They turned a corner, then another, speeding through the corridors past a group of bewildered Ravenclaws congregating near the open door of Flitwick's classroom.They passed the Great Hall, and the grand staircase, and the foyer. Hermione felt a fresh breeze meet her as they pushed through the doors and stepped out onto the grounds.

As they neared the gardens surrounding Sprout's classroom, Theo slowed. His shoulders were shaking from laughter. Hermione glared when he turned his head towards her, but she couldn't fight a chuckle.

"You're not too bad, Goldie." He said. "Knew you couldn't beat me though."

"You had a head start." Hermione coughed. Her lungs were burning and he had yet to break a sweat.

"That's a valid theory," Theo appeared to consider the idea. "Would you be interested in a rematch?"

"No!" Hermione groaned.

Theo looked pleased with himself. They stood in silence— rather, he stood in silence while she fought to catch her breath in the quietest possible manner. Hermione suddenly felt self conscious when she noticed his eyes were trailing her body. She took a moment to pull her uniform robes across her body.

"I think Barbage might hex you at this point, Nott."

"Theo." He corrected. "I'm considering feigning ailment. Think you could jinx me before you go tickle Mandrakes? A stinging jinx would suffice."

"I'm not going to jinx you, Theo." She rolled her eyes.

"Damn. Worth a try. It'd be a privilege to be anathematized by the Hermione Granger." He stepped closer to her, leaning slightly to meet her eyes.

Hermione's brows rose. "In the muggle world you'd be a remarkable lexicographer."

"Dictionaries are dull," He dismissed. "I'm far too charming to exist as a name on a dust cover. Now, if they were to display my face, I'd consider the offer."

Hermione laughed. "Define egotism, Theo."

"It's not egotism if I'm speaking the truth." He reached out to touch her cheek.

She flinched away. If Malfoy's touch could lock her in a concrete room, she was afraid to discover what Theodore Nott could do. If passion triggered connections with Slytherin boys, she needed to steer clear of him and his big brown eyes. And whatever she did, she could never let him put those hands anywhere Malfoy had. She already had one too many intruders in her brain.

Theo straightened. His eyes flickered, an amalgamation between humored and hurt. Hermione wondered if he expected her to swoon as she had in Potions, if he simply got off at the sight of her blush, or if his touch would have meant something more.

"Malfoy's been looking for you." He stated. Hermione could hear his voice harden, though the essence of a laugh was still plastered on his face.

"Oh." Hermione gaped. Malfoy. Always Malfoy.

He appeared to examine her for a moment. "Granger?"

"Yeah?"

"Be— be careful."

"Careful?"

"He's... off."

With that Theo brushed past her without so much as a goodbye.

Hermione felt as if she was on autopilot when she entered the greenhouse. An apology spilled from her lips like a well rehearsed poem. Sprout— who had always been rather fond of Hermione— waved her hand and conjured a chair.

Hermione sat, without truly realizing she'd moved at all. She was utterly distracted, paying no mind to the demonstration at the front of the room. She decided she would have to study the maintenance of dittany on her own, or even ask Neville.

All she could think about was Malfoy. Draco Malfoy and the concrete box.

The second Bellatrix's flames burnt out, he had left her alone in the room to find a way out. It was only when he had removed his hand from her corporeal arm in reality that she was wrenched out of his mind. It had hurt rather badly– left her reeling where she stood in the secret corridor. The feeling of being forced from the comfortable peace she felt within the four concrete walls left her exhausted and cold. She never even found her way to breakfast. Or lunch or dinner, for that matter. Starved on her own bloody birthday. Because the absence of Malfoy created a void in her gut, and she knew no amount of food would ever sufficiently fill it.

...

Draco's vision was blurry as he stood with his back against the cool glass of the Herbology greenhouse, waiting for Granger to leave. He would have never selected to participate in this class; Professor Sprout's voice alone was enough to drive him up a wall on an ordinary day, let alone a day like this. Standing within hearing distance of the witch only helped to infuriate him further.

Granger was the last to leave the class, only adding to his theory that she was actively avoiding him. The greenhouse had nearly cleared by the time she finally moseyed out of the door. He put every ounce of effort he had into his words, but couldn't manage to make them audible. Look at me!

Hermione winced as Malfoy's voice pounded against the inside of her skull. He was loud, louder than he had ever been before, and his words weren't a statement, they were a command. His energy was off; that wasn't his usual voice. It was fiercer, darker. Chilling, almost. She braced herself and spun on her heel to face him.

"Malfoy," She nodded curtly.

"Wh- wh- what," Draco stuttered now, stumbling over the syllables in his mind. What did you do to me? He'd prepared, even practiced what he would say when he saw her– when he finally got the chance to scream in her face, to tell her to fix what she'd done– yet all he could do was stammer like an imbecile. He felt his face flush. "Did you do?"

Hermione was truly bewildered. The insinuation that she had somehow done something to him– anything at all– was preposterous, at the very least. She remembered her book, her little muggle book on faces and emotions, and studied him. His expression toed the line between common paranoia and a complex form of vexation– eyes flicking around in every direction, unfocused on her, but his eyebrows were furrowed and his lips formed an even wider version of his seemingly permanent scowl. His body language expressed that he was simultaneously prepared to pounce at her and run away.

"I don't know what you mean," Granger's voice was blank. There was no emotion, if she had any at all. The scheming, lying bitch.

"I don't be- believe y-you." Draco glared at a patch of dittany flowers on the ground behind her, afraid that if he so much as met her eyes she would disassemble him again.

"That's not my problem," The mudblood stated. From his peripheral he could see that her lips were pressed into a thin line. She had the nerve to be calm in a situation like this.

"It," Draco gritted his teeth. "It really is."

Hermione was quiet for a long moment, thoughts racing in a manner she hoped Malfoy could not hear. The box, the book, the connection. It all didn't make sense, and now he claimed she had done something. She added this to another list of somethings she wished she understood.

"I really, really don't know what you mean." She silently willed him to meet her eyes, after all these days of questioning whether the box had been real, she needed some sort of sign.

Draco fought the urge to look at her. He wanted so badly to look. Look at her, meet her eyes which he could feel scanning his face. Look at something other than the plain green leaves rising from the dirt behind her. But he kept his eyes there. The words he could say to her formed and disappeared before he had the chance to open his mouth. His tongue was dry as a desert, so dry he considered dipping a hand into the garden fountain behind him and scooping some of its charmed water into his mouth. At least he still had the good sense to recognize that was a bad idea.

Hermione grew concerned. An uncomfortable silence stood thick between them. She didn't know what to do, wanting both to comfort him and leave him where he currently leaned against the greenhouse. Her hand found its way to his shoulder and again she was met with a jarring jolt of electricity. It travelled through her body from her fingertips to her toes. Touch, she reminded herself, touch. This time, she didn't lean into the stinging feeling. She jerked back.

During the millisecond that Granger's hand had connected with his shoulder, Draco felt himself melt. Clarity filled him. Touch. It's something in her touch. He managed to process the thoughts before her hand was gone. Gone.

Granger. He projected. You did something. How?

She looked up at him, and he was finally looking down at her. She met his eyes, held his gaze fiercely.

Sight. Sight too. Draco's clarity returned. He yearned for her to never look away from him, to hold his eyes until eternity faded. It was tranquilizing, the way her golden eyes met his, with a sweet innocence. Her eyes held understanding, like she knew without words. Knew everything. He didn't stop to wonder how she knew, or what she knew. It was soothing to feel perceived. His thoughts roamed peacefully, the typhoon fizzled away. The sun fell on his face. He could remember what the sun was.

This was Hermione Granger, Potter's mudblood, he tried to remind himself. But her blood status was so far in the back of his mind he didn't care who she was. She could have been a bloody Hufflepuff, or a muggle. He didn't care. He remembered his mission, but the urges brewing inside were driven by something else. Not a need to deceive but a need to touch. A need to feel that same fucking feeling from when she was in his box. Their box.

He wanted to grab her by the waist and push her against the glass walls of this wretched greenhouse. Wanted to fill his senses with her, override the stench of dittany and hydrangeas. Wanted to connect their skin– every part of their bodies until they were as close to one single being as magically and humanly possible. Wanted to touch her, wanted to feel her. Wanted that jolt of electricity, that excruciating relief. Her peace. Her calm.

He wondered if her lips would still be soft as they were in the kitchens. Wondered if maybe he could feel her in his chest again, feel whatever she felt, like he had on Sunday. If he could make her scream out his name, watch her cascade at his touch and feel her pleasure in his bones. Wondered whether her orgasm would feel like the Muggle's concept of heaven. If he could ride out her waves long enough to forget who he was. He felt impure, filthy, but he couldn't even hate himself for it.

Do you feel it? Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts. She was still staring deeply into him.

He didn't fully understand what she meant; her thoughts were no longer his, and he thanked Merlin that his were not hers. They wouldn't be without physical contact, at least. He wondered if he peeked inside her mind, he might find that her golden gaze was driven by pity. Whether she was mulling over the many ways she could manipulate him. Whether the moment of bliss he currently felt was just another of her tactics to fix him, to make him weak, to change him. He had a mission and in the single week following his first attempt, he was already behind schedule. All because of her.

Draco?

He smirked at the sound of his name in her voice. I don't know what you mean. He mimicked her.

This. Us. She motioned between them, but her voice remained inside his head.

Draco breathed heavily. The more she moved, the more she projected, he felt her. Her presence was addicting. He wanted more.

Hermione couldn't read Malfoy's mind, had no idea how to replicate the way she'd entered Sunday. She couldn't feel his emotions, couldn't find out the reason behind his darkening eyes. But she felt his presence as he spoke. She wanted him to speak and never shut up. Wanted to hear rather than see his life. His story. Wanted to go to the box– their box– and never leave.

We, he spoke into her, forcing the words. Forcing denial, a last saving Grace before he did something he would regret. Are nothing.

Hermione believed it even less than Draco did. It was an act, everything he did was an act. And she knew it now, because she knew the Draco at the piano, Draco with his mother. The Draco who grinned at the sight of a Death Eater burning alive. Draco who didn't want to be dark like his predecessors. Draco who was good.

You don't believe that.

Her voice was the last nail in his coffin. His fingers were tingling every second they were not on her skin. He had no judgement, no doubt, as he reached out to her and threw her against the greenhouse. As his fingertips graced her waist, the burning inside him subsided. The chaos subdued.

Do you feel this? He breathed the same breaths that she did. In and out. He now felt her heart beat beside his in his chest.

Draco–

Do you feel this? He projected louder. He needed to hear her say it. Say yes. Needed to know this wasn't some trick, some delusion in his mind.

Draco, somebody's going to see–

"I don't fucking care." He growled.

Then he collided his chest into hers. Pushed her back into the glass as far as it would go and considered pushing harder just to see how much effort was required to break the tinted glass. He grabbed her tiny wrists and pushed them above her head, restraining her, holding her there. She couldn't run, couldn't escape. Even if she wanted to. Couldn't run away with his sanity in the palm of her hands and leave chaos inside him again. He scanned her, searching for the best place to sink his teeth. Her lips or her cheekbones or that sharp collarbone? He settled for her neck, at her pulse point– to feel the beat of her heart somewhere more than his chest. Her skin was sweet on his lips as he suckled on it. She tasted like freshly baked pastries and coffee with something fruity. Coconuts. He savored it– trailed his tongue from the space behind her ear to the collar of her shirt.

Hermione didn't protest, didn't object to his touch, but she couldn't touch back. It was infuriating. He was all over her, holding her still. He was everywhere, the smell of cologne and mint overlapping the aroma of the garden around them. Her mind, as per usual, went ballistic. Was this real? Did she want this?

She didn't not want this. She felt a shift in his motions, in his touch. This was different than before, so dissimilar to the kitchens. This was passion, not angst. His lips against her skin were not angry, they were slow and firm. She pushed against the hand holding her wrists, not to escape but to simply have the power to do so if needed. He tightened his grip.

She wasn't against the idea of Draco Malfoy. He had been so... efficient before, after all. But he was unpredictable, rash. One moment slurs fell from his lips, then the next he was touching her. He was touching her now, his free hand on her ribcage, trailing the space between her breast and her hip without truly reaching either. It didn't hurt, exactly, aside from the jolt of electricity she felt at his touch. But it didn't feel good. This felt... off.

Theo had said he was "off."

"Do you feel this?" Draco growled against her chin. He was making his way towards her lips, trailing his teeth along the curves of her jawline. He didn't give a fuck if it bruised. Let them know, let them know you've been marked. The little pangs of pain she felt at the pressure of his bites coursed through him. It felt lovely.

He waited for an answer, a sign. But none came. She was tense. He felt it now. He pulled away. "Granger?"

She exhaled sharply, feeling his breath on her face. "Malfoy, I-"

Draco's eyes flicked from her furrowed brows to her pursed lips. He spiraled, having the capacity to think clearly now. Did she hate him? Had she seen his mind, his thoughts, his mission? Did she know now?

The girl, my Lord. The girl. Potter's mudblood. The words swirled past his ears. You will seduce her. Taint your purity if you must. He tried to clear his head of the voices. Then, once you succeed—

"Were you there?" He blurted, stepping away and releasing his grip around her wrists. If she could see into his mind, he couldn't afford to let her see this. That is, if she hadn't already seen this.

Hermione blinked. She knew exactly what he was talking about. The box. The room. He was there. "It was real?"

Without his chest against hers Draco's mind faltered once more. Words swirled in and out and he grasped at them to form a sentence. He could remember the box, but not the syllables to articulate it. "You were— there?"

Then the sound of clapping came from Draco's right and he snapped to face it.

"You did good, Draco." A voice slurred from somewhere in the distance. A boy stepped out from behind a tree and Draco couldn't quite place a finger on the source of the rage that rose within him. Adrian something... Adrian Pucey. "Had even me convinced there for a second."

What did he mean? Adrian, Adrian Pucey. He knew something. Something Draco should know. His fists clenched at his sides.

"What is he talking about, Malfoy?" Hermione felt like screaming. Was this really all a game? What did Pucey mean?

Malfoy only turned to her, eyes wide, like he was confused. That same expression he showed up with, same expression he stared at her with every day in class. Theo said he was off, was this the reason? Was he acting?

"Malfoy?"

"Oh, my bad, Drake," Pucey slurred again, stumbling out from the place he had been hiding for God knows how long. Hermione nearly laughed at the nickname. "Did I spoil it for her?"

"You—" Draco could only see the worry on Granger's face. His chest stung. "You need to— shut up."

"Malfoy? What is he talking about?" Hermione repeated angrily.

Adrian opened his mouth to speak again but Draco's racing thoughts formed one word. Secret. Then he was lunging at his friend, hands balled into a fist. His knuckles collided with Pucey's cheek. "Shut, up." He growled.

Hermione had had enough. "Malfoy!" But he didn't turn to look at her. He was scary, hunched over where Pucey now laid in the grass. His shoulders rose and fell as he took deep breaths. "Malfoy, what—"

"You," He panted. "You need to go."


End file.
